


All For Show

by cannibalinc



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Choking, Desk Sex, Dirty Talk, Dumbledore is very disappointed, General Nonsense Really, Harrymort - Freeform, Hilarity, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Political Nonsense, Rimming, Sadism, mild violence, of the sexual sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:48:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6700021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cannibalinc/pseuds/cannibalinc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is sure he accidentally touched one of his father's illegal artifacts and is hallucinating as a result. Why else would he be seeing Harry-Bloody-Potter prancing around his house with Lord-Bloody-Voldemort?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It was a rare occurrence whilst tucked safely away in the cozy Malfoy Manor, but as it was still completely possible, Draco was irritable. So irritable, in fact, that he could feel his sensitive, pale skin beginning to prickle and break out with the anxious hormones now tearing an extremely damaging quest out of his pores.

Now, outsiders, you might have scoffed at the mere notion of the Malfoy estate being anything cozy, but outsiders had a horrible tendency to assume supporters of the Dark Lord didn't know how to have a happy home life. Completely untrue. Draco was probably the most privileged, content, and loved child in all of Wizarding Britain, with a doting mother, a supportive father, and a home fit for a prince (and in the privacy of his home, Narcissa did sometimes call him her little Slytherin Prince. Not that he would ever admit it, of course).

There were no blood stains, no echoing screams of terror, no skulls mounted on the walls (Mother said it was tacky). In fact, Malfoy Manor wasn't even dark. There were large windows everywhere that spilled in the morning sunlight like a bloody church. And sure, there was the occasional Dark artifact displayed, but only for bragging purposes ("Haha, my father works at the Ministry and can have illegal substances-slash-trinkets whenever he wants. Aren't you jealous?"). But in general, Malfoy Manor was tastefully (expensively) furbished- if not a tad exuberant. So Draco wasn't a prat because he had a horrible homelife- what with hosting the Dark Lord and his- er- entourage and his father's involvement with the terrorization of the general public.

He was a prat because he was rich, spoiled, and hot (and knew it).

So bad moods hardly ever colored his aura (having the perfect life and all that whatnot), but when they did… He made sure everyone in the house knew it. And how irate he was! You see, it was late. Probably a little after three in the morning, and Draco had spent previous hours locked away in his private sunroom with his bestie, Blaise Zabini (or so Blaise claimed. Pansy still swore she was the one with the title of Best Friend). They got drunk off of his father's spirits to celebrate the New Year. With permission, though Draco had pretended to break into his father's stock to impress Blaise.

But that was hours ago, and the buzz had long run out on him, leaving him with nothing but a headache as dry as the wine had been. So yes. A hangover before he even had the crash. And all he wanted to do was crash- in the ridiculously plush nine pillows on his huge bed that smelled of his shampoo and sweet, sweet money. And he had been about to do so- even settled in those almost dozen pillows (nine pillows for his nine Outstandings on his OWLs scores- he had received an Exceeds Expectations for History of Magic because of that dreadful Professor Binns, ruining his otherwise perfect score, damn him), pulled the downy comforter up to his chin like he had done since he stopped sleeping in his parents' bedroom all those years ago when the dark had still frightened him, and closed his bloodshot, slate blue eyes. Totally relaxed and ready for Mr. Sandman to slip in beside him and dust him with his eye-bogies.

Then, it happened.

A piercing, startling noise in the silence of the late- rather, _early_ \- hour, and it jolted poor Draco out of his bonelessness. Someone, somewhere- probably in one of the rooms down the hall- had cackled. Bloody cackled! Like the-most-hilarious-joke-in-all-the-world-had-been-told cackle. At three am!

Maybe his father was making a firecall, or perhaps his mother had Bella over, or maybe one of the house elves had finally cracked, as Draco was sure they would do, the freaky little things.

But the cackle was gone, as soon as it had come, and he tried to forget all about it. If it was some sort of bloodlusting ritual (which wouldn't exactly be a shock, though Mother always insisted Lucius keep his work _at work_ ), he'd deal with finding a body tomorrow. Evening. After he got a full sixteen to twenty hours of beauty sleep. So Draco relaxed again, the little furrow in between his pale eyebrows disappearing.

But then, and of course, it happened again, because a story as sarcastic and witty as this cannot continue on its own without some sort of plot device. The cackle wasn't a cackle anymore- more of a melodious sort of sound. Laughter. Happy laughter. Maybe a murder wasn't happening after all. It sounded like it was coming from the room next to his- though that wasn't possible because that was a room Narcissa had for private and closely related guests, reserved for privacy since this side of the mansion was for their bedrooms and other enclosures for clandestine purposes. Perhaps, then, his father's study?

The laughter died down to a simmer of quiet conversation- and hadn't they ever heard of a bloody _Muffliato_? Seriously, tomorrow, Draco was ordering soundproofing to be installed if this continued. His head gave a particularly nasty pulse when the laughter pitched again. What could be so funny, anyway? Well, if they thought they could get away with disturbing his rest, they had another thing coming.

So here he was, standing outside of his father's private office, in nothing but his pajamas, feet freezing on the polished wood-floor (a heating charm would be installed along with the sound-proofing, he decided as another chill raced up the back of his legs), listening to the voices merrily chatting along without a care for the other people in the east wing at all.

"You know you are welcome to stay the night, should you need to," he heard his father say, voice huskier than usual because of the lateness in the night. More laughter.

"Thank you, Luci. Ever the proper host-" _Luci_? Was that supposed to be his _father_?- "Our lord goes on and tells me it's _soooo_ urgent that I meet with him tonight, and what happens? I'm sitting here all evening with a crick in my neck, and he's off meeting with a vampire clan in bloody Australia. And I suppose he expects me to sit here until he decides to grace me with his presence, yes?"

Draco had never heard anyone- except for maybe Aunt Bellatrix- speak so inappropriately about the Dark Lord (and he was using the term 'inappropriate' very _loosely_ ). He couldn't quite put his finger on the speaker, but his voice sounded suspiciously familiar… It was confident, definitely male, and almost, dare he say it, seductive- which was a disturbing thought since Draco was fairly sure the only ones in the dark study were his father and this mystery man.

"How Gryffindor of you," Lucius teased- _teased!_ \- and that sharp chortle was back, cutting through the calm air like a stinging hex.

" _Please_. Like I haven't heard _that_ one before. Five thousand times. You know, when you were on the other end of my wand a couple of years ago, you said the exact same thing. But I'm pretty sure you were mocking me."

"I'm still mocking you," Lucius replied in good humor. There was a silence. "Shall I get one of the elves to bring you a soothing draught? You look tense."

"It's been a long week. Politics is murder. More murder than actual murder," he intoned softly with a light chuckle. Draco frowned. What was he doing again? Oh yes, telling his father and his guest where to shove it so he could get some proper sleep.

"I cannot believe the day has come that I get to hear you- the great and pure Boy Who Lived- abandon his sensibilities and jest about death," Draco's father said dryly.

Draco felt his lungs- his heart, his very blood flow- freeze. _What_? The Boy Who _What_?

There was a soft groan of complaint.

"I thought I said not to call me that, Luci. You know it makes me sick,"

"Hmm, maybe if you had a respectful bone in your body and started calling me Sir Malfoy, I'd return the favor."

"On second thought, the Boy Who Lived is just fine."

 _The Boy Who Lived_? As in- the Boy Named Bloody Harry Potter? Harry Potter, the boy destined to defeat the Dark Lord? Sitting in his father's study? Calling him _Luci_?

"This is killing me. Voldemort's getting nothing from me if he keeps this up. I think I'm going to bed in a few if he can't find it in his ever-so-black heart to show his face,"

"I'll pretend I tried to stop you," Lusius snorted.

The guest- possibly, but totally impossibly a certain scar-headed, frazzle-haired- hmmed.

"So self-preserved. Why am I not surprised? Just like Draco, I suppose,"

Lucius gave a laugh, one that Draco knew was a laugh his father only ever dared let loose when at home and not in front of company. Just how close was this (not)Harry Potter to his father? And where did he get off calling him Draco, by his first name, when whenever they're in person, it was always a plain, stony " _Malfoy_ ".

"He has grown up nicely I think," he continued. "A bit childish still, a little naive, extremely conceited, and completely bigoted towards-"

"That's it!" Draco snapped, throwing open the door, and stomping inside (and promptly shutting it behind him, because his mother was likely asleep, and it would not do to wake her up) platinum hair disheveled from his short romp in the sheets, and face flushed with embarrassment and anger. "What the bloody hell is Potter doing in my house at 4 in the morning talking to my father like they're best- _bleeding_ -friends?"

They stared at him- Lucius behind his desk, elbows propped up on the mahogany, eyes slightly wider a fraction in his masked surprise, Harry-bloody-Potter lounged on the window seat, barefooted like Draco and looking every bit like an impassive snake coiled up on the cushions.

"Oh dear," Harry said with an airy smile, "Cat's out of the bag."

Lucius coughed.

"Draco. Why aren't you asleep?"

Draco rounded on his father, stalked inside, and dropped down into the chair across from him, arms crossed and chin set.

"Funny you ask that, actually," Draco snapped. "I _was_ trying to sleep when I kept hearing this obnoxious voice-" he shot a look in Potter's direction who was looking out the window and pretending not to hear- "And came to tell it to kindly shut the bloody hell up-"

"Language, son,"

"-And what do I find? Harry Potter!" he paused, took a breath, and repeated, because he just couldnot-wouldnot ( _shouldnot_ ) grasp that the Saviour of the Light was sitting here as if invited, quite literally into the very nest of the Dark Wizarding world, "Harry. Potter."

Lucius pursed his lips, icy blue eyes- almost the same shade as Draco's- darting to Potter's relaxed form.

"Don't be ridiculous," his father said. "That isn't Harry Potter. It's Rabastan under the Poly Juice."

The Harry Potter laughed, rose to his seat, slithered behind Lucius' desk, and draped his thin arms around Draco's father's shoulders, chin resting on his shoulder, and there was no fucking way that could be Lestrange because he would _never_ touch his cousin like that.

"No need to lie, Luci. You see Draco, I wasn't going to tell you, but since you've caught us, might as well. Your father and I are in a passionate, forbidden affair."

Lucius did not even blink, probably used to Potter's antics, Draco would muse later. Draco gaped at them- the way Potter's eyes sparkled with mischief and his lips curled into a pleasant smirk.

"There's nothing to be done," he continued, and let out a dreamy sigh, a bit annoyed that Lucius was so unphased. "We're in love."

"Is that so?"

Draco squeaked, jumped right off the chair, and slammed his knees into his father's desk.

He looked behind him where a shadow was cast to see the menacing Dark Lord himself. When had he even walked in? He couldn't have floo'd in because there had been no telling burst of green flame, but the office door was still closed from when Draco had shut it!

There was a smattering of blood at the hem of his robes, long dried, and his scarlet eyes pierced straight over Draco's shoulder and at the couple behind the desk. He did not look murderous, but he certainly wasn't happy (and when had Draco ever seen the Dark Lord happy anyway?) Draco swiveled his neck back around and watched as Harry unwound himself from Lucius, a devious smile on his seemingly innocent face. His father was extremely pale.

"My Lord," his father greeted stiffly, bowing from his position, and Voldemort waved his hand in the air in an 'at ease' gesture.

"Well, look who decided to show up," Potter said, then hissed something long and soft. Draco thought he was having a stroke before he remembered Potter commanded the tongue of snakes. Completely undeservedly, at that.

Draco shivered at the sound of the oily syllabics. His eyes went wide when the Dark Lord reached a bone white hand out to drag Potter closer by the chin, until they were chest to chest.

"You look tired," Voldemort said simply.

Draco saw him roll his eyes.

"And who do you think made me this way? And don't say the Ministry, you-"

Harry cut off when he noticed the Lord's attention was no longer on him, but on Draco. The young wizard looked over his shoulder, following Voldemort's gaze until he met Draco's.

"Ah, yes. Draco joined us a few minutes ago."

Upon being addressed, Draco suddenly realized exactly what he looked like- completely lacking in all things presentable, practically undressed in front of his Lord! He felt embarrassment boil up as he shrunk back. Being like this in front of his father- and even Potter- was different- they'd both seen him worse. But the Dark Lord?

Fucking hell. It was way scarier to look into his freaky eyes when in your undergarments. He felt so… naked.

"My…" Draco swallowed nervously, his voice breaking into a pathetic whimper, "My Lord."

He did not look impressed, and quickly turned his attention back to Potter, as though asking why Draco should be such a disappointment in all ways, even in pajama wearing.

"It's my fault really. I was too loud and didn't think to put up a silencing charm. Woke poor Drake, here."

Drake? Was Potter trying to humiliate him even more? Draco looked to his father in absolute misery for help, but his eyes were trained intently on Harry and the Dark Lord, his cheeks set stonily. Why was he so scared? Usually, his father was too proud to show fear, even with the end of Voldemort's wand pointed in his direction, because he rarely felt scared of the Dark Lord. Lucius held a deep respect for him that only left his gaze filled with admiration. So what was so different now?

"And you weren't being loud because of your.. Ah, passionate, forbidden affair, were you?"

Those serpentine eyes cut from the dark haired wizard in his arms ( _in his_ _arms_? What dimension had Draco been sucked into?) to Lucius, who looked ready to pass out, or more likely to disapparate to safety.

"You're so touchy," Potter sighed, and whispered something in Parseltongue that gave Draco a sense of something sexual (oh, for the love of- _disgusting_ ) and that had the Dark Lord sneering with an emotion he couldn't quite place- notlustohgod.

"Anyway, I suppose I'll see you later Lucius. Drake," Potter said with a nod and grabbed the Dark Lord by his black sleeve to the fireplace. Voldemort found Draco's gaze quite easily before disappearing in a whirlwind of green.

"I don't need to tell you what I'll do to you if word of this gets out, do I… _Drake_?"

He swallowed again and shook his head heavily.

"No, My Lord. Of course not."

Harry huffed in annoyance, rolled his eyes again, and pulled Voldemort further into the fireplace so that they were practically embracing (Embracing! Like it was normal for mortal enemies to be that close and not choking each other to death!) With a toss of powder to the hearth and a soft murmur of "Greengrass Abbey" from Potter, they were gone.

What. The. Fuck.

Draco floundered for words, his mouth actually imitating a fish quite accurately, and not in that general simile sort of way that wishy-washy authors throw about cheaply either. He was agog. Begging his father to say _something_. Lucius seemed to crumble, his face collapsing into his hands, a weak sigh escaping his chalky lips.

"That boy is going to be the death of me," he finally stated.

It took a long time for Draco to understand what had taken place and what his father had meant- long after he returned to bed and finally fell asleep. Long after the rest of New Year's holiday, and even so far as after the second term of his seventh year in Hogwarts.

It was summer, hot, humid, and generally disgusting (insects, mostly, ugh, and for some reason he could not fathom, Draco's father outright refused to Banish insects from the property, something unimportant about the delicate ecosystem of botany and the lavish Malfoy gardens), which had Draco spending most of his days indoor instead of brushing up on his Quiddich skills with Crabbe and Goyle.

Again, it was dark, though not as obscenely late as the last encounter, when Draco heard the murmuring coming from the first floor's dining room. It was not a surprise to see the Dark Lord in their home, as Lord Voldemort had yet to set up a place for himself being as busy as he was (most of his time was spent out of the country anyway; doing what, you ask? Expanding his Empire, Draco supposed). And sometimes, the Dark Lord would bring company: a foreign leader of the Dark here, and a Werewolf alpha there, so a dinner guest in the Malfoy dining room was not unusual.

But that _laugh_.

It was impossible to not recognize- so bloody jolly, like everything said was coming from the mouth of a comedian. Draco, for his part, had never once laughed at anything Lord Voldemort had ever said, never felt inclined to, and likely never would. Not unless he wanted to be severely maimed. Or called insane- like dear Aunty Bella.

Draco peaked over the hand-crafted, solid silver banister (that cost a billion-trillion- _bazillion_ galleons to anyone who wanted to know, and if you didn't want to know, well. What is wealth for but rubbing it in your cheap face?) so he could see into the dining room. It had been rearranged to fit the tastes of the occupants. The long, strict table was gone, so that only a low standing, small almost-coffee-table rested, centered under the low burning candle chandelier, and the many chairs had disappeared as well, leaving only a comfortable looking couch to sit on, pulled close enough to the table so that one could still eat. The table itself- dark wood, encrusted with amethyst- was covered in foods found in mostly French cuisine, tumblers filled with most likely alcoholic substances. But that was all standard fair and wasn't what grabbed at Draco's attention.

It was obvious what he was witnessing wasn't for his eyes- _anyone's_ eyes- to see, but that was what the damn door was for, and well. It was open. So there.

The moment was... intimate- anyone would see that. The Dark Lord was leaned back on the couch, neck propped up by Nagini, where she lay resting, her full length stretched out along the back of the couch and coiling at the floor on one side because she was just so _huge_. His typical black robes were missing, dress shirt unbuttoned to the middle, showing his marble white, scaly chest that, in all honesty, only made Draco even more terrified of him. Alone, it would have been almost normal, but Harry Potter (bloody Harry Potter, in his house _again_ )… He was lying on his back on the couch, his head in the Dark Lord's lap and his shoes and socks left cold on the immense rug his mother Narcissa had imported from the Sacred Elven Fields settled at the edge of the Universe, hand woven and gifted from the High Priestess herself (and that had cost ten times more than the banister, by the way). He wore Muggle jeans of all things, that were form-fitting and old looking, the nerve, but fit his shabby style, and the dark green sweater he was wearing (which looked way better on him than red and gold, if Draco had any say) had ridden up to expose a stripe of pale waist. One of Voldemort's spidery hands was resting on that soft looking skin, those long, sharp, but admittedly clean nails stroking it absently. His other hand was caressing Potter's forehead- his scar, Draco realized after a second- and Potter seemed like a cat. Practically purring and half-asleep, his own hands on the Dark Lord, feeling those glittering scales.

Draco wondered if they were dry like a lizard's or smooth like a snake's.

He should ask Potter sometime, and Draco wasn't sure how long he stood there lost in his imagination of that particular conversation (Potter would definitely reply something like "It's a secret," or something equally obnoxious), and was only ushered back up the stairs when Narcissa stumbled upon his prone figure.

He should have known then, the nature of their relationship. But Draco was rather immersed in his motivated ignorance. It seemed easy enough to think of all of what he'd seen as a dream anyway. Especially when Lucius refused to acknowledge it, and everyone else seemed to be in the dark. Harry Potter was the Dark Lord's best kept secret next to his blood status (which Draco was only privy to because of Wormtail's slippery tongue that had ultimately been his demise a few years back when Voldemort had discovered some sort of treachery from the rat).

Potter's frequent appearances in the afternoons continued through the summer, and it was then that Draco finally realized what was going on. Harry had been subtly pushing for educational and political reform. Slowly inching towards a more mellow definition of Dark and Light, suggesting new laws that actually advocated Werewolf involvement in the government, advocated the study of Dark Arts in Hogwarts.

Of course, all of this was written by the spectacular Rita Skeeter (who Draco suspected was being paid outlandishly by Potter- it had recently been announced that the boy-Saviour was _loaded_ which in turn had made Draco wonder why Potter always dressed so dreadfully). Skeeter, in her shameless, and lacking literary merit way painted Potter's radical and dangerous political maneuvers in gold and rainbows. Everyone had expected Potter to go in Auror training after his Seventh and final year at school, but he had dumbfounded them all by shooting straight for Delores Jane Umbridge's job, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. And even more astounding: people actually rallied behind him, either worshipping his feet or hating Umbridge enough to prefer a seventeen year old man-child.

Potters's platform was based off of Civil Rights for higher magical creatures, a hint of Blood Supremacy, and educational welfare, almost all of it scooting to more Dark Arts. Scrimgeour was sweating up a storm against his running-mate, Thicknesse, who in all reality had no chance of winning. A somewhat sad looking man with a forgettable face, doomed for the footnotes of history. But with Harry Potter at his side…

Why Potter was doing this was anyone's guess, though the Quibbler proudly announced it was because Harry didn't want children in the coming generations to grow up in the middle of a war "like I have", in those wide, doughy green eyes that drew readers in like flies to honey. And this time, he means in the simile way. How would anyone see with honey eyes? Draco suspected Harry was paying Xenophilius Lovegood off as well, though probably with restricted information on rare magical creatures instead of actual money. Potter was a big, fat figurehead using every bit of his influence on any media he could get his little fame-seeking hands on.

Draco, privately, found Potter's rather Slytherin ways kind of attractive (and judging from the way the Dark Lord kept him glued to his side whenever Potter was at the Manor suggested Draco wasn't the only one. But. The Nile and all that).

Dumbledore _had_ to be rolling in his grave.

It wasn't until a month after all the fuss, dead center of the Summer, when the Dark Lord ordered a full-attendance ball-turn-meeting, that Potter showed his face again. At first, when he was announced from the guest list upon his arrival, the entrance hall to the Parkinson Palace still less than half full, whispers rippled through the room wondering if the boy- _man_ \- knew where exactly he was. But then, Draco's own mother, Mrs. Parkinson, and Blaise Zabini (when had Blaise even _met_ Potter?) had all drawn to him like moths to a flame, all smiles and charm.

He was one of them, the hall realized. His father, Draco noticed, kept a tense distance from Potter throughout the evening.

And Potter stayed the entire night, through to the meeting as well. No one questioned the Dark Lord, but Draco could guess many did so in the privacy of their minds.

"Bellatrix," Lord Voldemort hissed, as they gathered to their respectful places at the long table in one of the Parkinson auditoriums. The gaunt, previously wickedly beautiful woman (Draco had seen pictures of her younger years) looked up just as she was about to sit at the Dark Lord's left hand. Usually, Lucius would be at his right, but as Mr. Parkinson was the host, it was his place for the night by rite, Lucius immediately after.

"You will move down a seat."

Her wide eyes went larger, the whites an unnatural yellow. Narcissa had been treating her with nutritional supplements since her Azkaban breakout but the improvement was minimal still. It would take a few years for her to regain more than a shade of her former allure. Not that she seemed to care of it. Bellatrix seemed perfectly happy these days. Excepting just now, of course.

"My Lord?"

Her voice held concerned confusion; hesitance. Everyone fell silent. Draco watched from his place next to Theo and Pansy. The only ones still whispering were Blaise and Potter who sat across the table from Draco. Their faces were close and their words fast, like what they were saying was urgent, though Draco caught bits of their conversation in the extended silence. Quidditch bets for this year's World Cup. Honestly. Draco looked back up the table and found the Dark Lord's crimson eyes trained at Potter and Blaise, his snake-like face smooth in a silent, calm anger. Nothing unusual there, at least.

"You will move down a seat, and Rodolphus will trade places... with Harry."

Potter's attention snapped from Blaise to Lord Voldemort the moment his name was hissed, whose skeletal hand was beckoning him. The younger wizard showed an easy smile, one dark eyebrow quirked up a little. He stood smoothly, and slowly made his way to the head of the table, where Rodolphus was clearly having negative feelings with having to sit with teenagers. Well, Draco could speak for the teenagers, and they weren't happy about it either; Rodolphus was terrible company on a good day. His jaw clenched as he silently sulked his way to a humiliated exile.

Every eye followed Potter, who rounded behind the Dark Lord, his hand trailing down Lord Voldemort's forearm as he passed, and settled in the empty chair next to a disgruntled Bellatrix.

"Ickle-Potty," she snarled at him, "How's your god-daddy?"

Potter smiled at her blackened teeth. The guests held their breath, and Potter suspended the silence for as long as he thought he could hold their attention, before resting his chin on a hand, green eyes staring into her dark coal stare.

"Enjoying his forced retirement I'll bet. I don't think he'd like my new friends very much," he paused before a cruel smile spread over his face, alarming Mr. Parkinson greatly. Draco's father, once again, seemed to avoid looking at Harry altogether. "How is your husband? He looks very fetching down at the kiddie table."

Bellatrix's face turned a ruddy pink darkening the worst of her discoloration and scarring. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black was well known for their vanity; Belatric likely didn't care one whit for her husband any other day he hasn't been publicly denounced. It was a low blow, but Potter apparently had a lot of aggressive energy pent up for the woman before him; it was no secret.

As Bella opened her mouth to likely threaten Potter's life, the Dark Lord raised a hand to Harry's wrist, clasping it tightly.

"Now, now, Harry. Play nicely with others," he hissed. Harry made an expression extremely close to a pout, his other hand coming to rest on top of Lord Voldemort's. Bella stared at the interaction.

" _Ssstheha ththhttssss fffffffttttthssss_ ," Potter intoned softly, or something like that. It wasn't as though Draco was a professional transcriptionist; give him some slack.

A shudder ran down the table. Lord Voldemort's grip tightened, a grin full of sharp teeth pulling at his thin mouth. Potter continued to stare up at him through his eyelashes daringly until those white fingers peeled away from his arm.

" _Graaaaaa sshhhhhssssssssss_ ," the Dark Lord replied in a sinister voice, dripping in dark humor. " _Sithh firethhsssss snraahhh._ "

You might wonder how Draco knew the dripping in dark humor bit. Let's just say some things were cross-lingual.

" _Shas iyies-nagh_?" Potter asked, dragging out the sounds in the breathy, slick language.

You get the idea. There was a lot of hissing and maybe a little spittle. So much for the majestic legacy of the tongue of Salazar Slytherin.

Lord Voldemort's lips curled into a disapproving line, cutting their secret conversation to an end, and he finally addressed the entire table for the greater purpose of their gathering. He never once explained Potter's presence, nor did he seem to feel the need to. Potter for the most part remained silent, only speaking in a quiet Parseltongue into the Dark Lord's shoulder if he had something to say.

Draco's brain was beginning to catch up on the clues, the cues. Harry's daring whispers- flirtatious. The Dark Lord's even darker smirks, lingering glances, casual brushes of fingers. It was all considerably disturbing. Still, Draco pushed the daunting truth away- it was just too… _wrong_. Besides which, Lord Voldemort was hideous. Well. If he were being generous, Draco supposed there was a sort of exotic creature-like quality to the Dark Lord, not human, but just enough to be recognizable. And eerie sort of attractive, maybe. If he kept his hood up and the lights low.

But he was more than three times Potter's age, a total sociopath, and probably still got off on the idea of Potter dying.

And Potter- well he was bloody Harry Potter, wasn't he? The same Harry Potter who was supposed to be with that Weasley girl, Ginny, who was supposed to be spending the summer with his precious Order and not running for office with Pius Thicknesse. So Draco told himself their little thing that hung in the air between them was all for show, for proving they could do the impossible. Right.

His resolve wavered a bit when Lord Voldemort's hand vanished under the table during his speech, possibly resulting in the squirmy, blushing young man beside him.

_Right._

By some miracle, Thicknesse was elected Minister of Magic by the end of Fall, Potter as his Under Secretary, securing Snape as Hogwart's Headmaster, because really. The Wizengamot would be stupid to go against a man the people so supported (Harry Potter, not Snape). It's what had kept them out of Dumbledore's way, after all. And his (Thicknesse speaking, but obviously Potter pulling the strings) first business of order had been to change _Defense Against the Dark Arts_ to _Magical Defense and The Dark Arts: An Understanding_. Of course, the latter of the two were reserved for fifth years and up, and be completely voluntary.

Skeeter was verbally kissing Potter's feet in the _Prophet_. Literally too, if Potter thought to let her. Her rates had never been so high.

It was making for an extremely and bizarrely happy Dark Lord. Er- the political success. Draco wasn't sure how the Dark Lord might react to Rita Skeeter kissing Potter anywhere. It was strange to see Lord Voldemort join them at balls, or casual banquets, or a walk through the gardens (walks that Draco witnessed from windows; the bugs were still in season after all).

He was even present for a sunny breakfast, his followers trying not stare or jump upon hearing him chuckling as Potter hissed jokes only he could understand. And he hadn't even killed anyone this past week!

"Uh. Potter?"

The dark-haired young man hmmed in acknowledgment as he leant down to feed Nagini some of his sausage. Draco ignored that fact that Potter was in his sleep clothes (ignored the fact that he had obviously _slept over_ , and _definitely_ not wondering where on earth he had slept).

"What do you tell everyone when you're over here?" Draco asked, pushing his food around on his platter.

"Well, to be honest, I don't tell anyone anything," Harry answered, looking up, "I have a private, unplottable house I had built after leaving Hogwarts that no one knows the whereabouts of. Well. In theory," he looked at Lord Voldemort for a second, "But I rarely ever go there. It's kind of a decoy anyway. Anyone at the Ministry can get a hold of my files and see where it is. The perks of being Under Secretary is that I don't answer to anyone. Plus, my old friendships have for the most part died. I suppose that's what happens when you're bedding down with your sworn enemy..."

There was a pause. A long one.

"Metaphorically, I mean."

Bella chewed loudly on her stewed prunes, allowing a mixture of spit and juice to spray out on the satin tablecloth. She looked about as sour as the pickled plum sauce, leaned back, her cleavage catching most of the mess. Draco, unsure if it was due to Potter's answer or his aunt, lost his appetite promptly.

The only ones who seemed unaffected were the Dark Lord and Harry- who was staring at Bella in a sort of detached curiosity and disgust. He paid her no mind though, and quickly picked up his conversation with Voldemort, about Educational Decree three-hundred-or-other about poor, sad orphans. Perhaps that was all they had in common.

Besides their. Well. Metaphor.

Draco felt an immense pressure in his head; a headache.

"…literally fell _off_ his broom! Cost 'em the whole game! And I turn to the bloke next to me and I says…" Rabastan was telling his scowling brother.

"...to forget the first calculations," his mother was saying fervently to his father. "We were but seconds from breaking the seal on the opal and rediscovering the very fabric of wards as we know..."

"...got a fifty galleon fine from the Apparition Department. How was I supposed to know I was going to end up in the women's loo?!" Goyle was moaning.

The conversations lulled Draco back and forth, like the pulling waves on a shore.

"…and I'll probably be out of the country for the rest of the month because I'm expected to go with Pius to the WUN conference," Potter was saying, twirling his fork in his fingers absently. The Dark Lord stared intently at him, and something about his shift in mood had the table falling silent. Voldemort's displeasure coated the room.

"That's nearly three weeks," he said softly to Harry who was nodding, eyes closed and savoring a bite of the sweet prunes.

"Good," Bella muttered from around her own fork-full.

They didn't spare her a glance.

"Yes, barely enough time to settle anything with Latin America- Bolivia is being _ridiculous_ , so I'll expect the trip will take longer than that; probably the entire next _month_ too. But Pius says he can't be gone for that long with just getting the job- worried he'll be a seat warmer or something. I've told him-"

"You will not go," the Dark Lord interrupted, taking Harry's wrist in a way that mirrored the other countless times Draco had witnessed, but somehow managing to be one thousand times more deliberate and awkward to witness.

"Now, _that's_ ridiculous dear," Harry said with a frown, and if he hadn't continued, someone might have called him out on calling the Dark Lord _dear_ , "I have to go. I'm Senior Undersecretary,"

"Yes, My Lord. He _has_ to go. I support him all the way across the sea and farther and farther," Bella interjected again. This time Harry waved a hand at her in a shut-up sort of way.

"Hush, Bellatrix. Let the adults talk. Really, I have no choice. Believe me, I don't want to spend that long stuck with arguing politicians in their ivory towers."

(Funny how Potter didn't seem to mind ivory towers when he was staying at one.)

"But it's my job to-"

"It's your _job_ ," Voldemort spoke carefully, low and malicious, and took Harry by the chin so he was forced to make eye contact, "to do as I say,"

There was a long pause in which the younger wizard leaned closer in seeming contemplation before slipping past Voldemort's loose grip in his arm so that their hands entwined instead. They were holding hands. Draco looked around the table, feeling hysterical, but he only saw a lot of avoiding gazes and twitching eyebrows.

Was _no one else_ on the verge of complete insanity?!

"Of course," Potter whispered. "My Lord."

Draco felt a shock of arousal as he stared at Potter's expression- a small smile with a mischievous twist at the corners. His green eyes- where were his glasses?- were trained on Lord Voldemort and nothing else. As always, the Dark Lord was the center of Potter's life.

Voldemort stood, his black robes draping around his body, from his broad shoulders to his bare feet, and looked at Harry expectedly.

"Come Harry," he spoke softly, the usual menacing ruthlessness in his voice gone. "We have much business to do today."

Potter frowned, that almost-pout back in place; "Business. Sounds boring. What kind?"

He swept himself up, brushed the wrinkles from his quaffle and snitch printed pajamas, and followed the Dark Lord out of the first floor's dining room.

"I think you'll find yourself quite eager for the task," The Dark Lord replied. And something about it; something in his tone made everything shift within Draco's brain, all the pieces clattering in place with a single resounding _click_.

Oh, Merlin. You have _got_ to be _kidding_.

"They're fucking!" The words were tumbling out of Draco's mouth before he could stop them, and thank heavens the two wizards in question had already left the room.

"Draco!" Mother gasped, "Some decorum, _please_ -"

"The Dark Lord and Potter!" he ignored his mother, instead searching his father's gaze, who seemed to still be staring at his crepes. "They're bloody _fucking_."

"How _dare_ you suggest that our Lord would lower himself to such filth!" Aunt Bella raved, spewing her breakfast for the second time that morning- this time genuine rage; "He would _never_ -"

"You've just now discovered?" Rabastan asked, chewing on a slice of sausage dipped in his porridge- a Sphinx mix from the valleys in Albania. Bella growled, and Draco guessed that she had already known as well and was only trying to deny it: Potter. And Voldemort.

Having _sex_.

Draco wasn't all that hungry any more.

"You'd do well," Lucius said in a deep grumble, "to not repeat any of this."

"Our Lord is putting Potter in his proper place!" Bella snapped viciously, "It's just a show of dominance!"

Someone snorted, but it was hard to tell who.

"It's all for show!" she insisted.

Yet at that very moment, they heard a loud shout in a very familiar voice "Voldemort!"; and not the usual sort of cry ("Help! I'm shouting because I'm in pain!"). Oh, _no_. This shout was just the opposite ("Yes! I'm shouting because- dear _god_ \- it just feels _so_ \- and you forgot to close the door _again_ but- no, don't stop!")

"All for show," Aunt Bella says to herself again, clasping her hands to her ears- and she isn't the only one.

Right.

How many times had Draco heard _that_ before?


	2. Chapter 2

_Why was he here?_

Harry swallowed nervously- for what seemed to be the millionth time, and his throat protested because it had become sore from the anxious abuse.

Oh, right. This had all been Hermione's idea, and had forced him to learn physical and emotional control via Occlumency- all through text of course, since his last jaunt with it had been rather spectacularly ( _utterly_ ) unsuccessful- a mass of dead cockroaches and every insult to his father one could possibly conjure in the ten seconds it took for him to _get the hell out of there_ simultaneously thrown at him by one murderous Severus Snape.

However and against all odds, he had studied (and studied _and studied_ ) and somewhat mastered the art. So his face remained a shell of calm stoicism. Hell, he could even morph his face into the painted sneer of disdain known only on the Malfoy mug- and do it better (and that had caused quite a bit of raucousness with his drunken impersonations in the dorms in the past few weeks which Hermione had scolded them for when she overheard Ron snorting about it over the breakfast table).

The Manor was ominous, even at this distance. Three, four, or twenty stories high, a million times wider than the Dursley's garden home could ever hope to be, their respective yards just as different as well (if you could them yards at all, for the one he could see from his little place on a distant hill was far too large, and the six feet- at the most- surrounding No. 4 Privet Dr. was far too small). There was even a towering gate cutting through the narrow drive (what did Malfoys need a drive for anyhow; it's not as though they have _cars_ ), and the fact that he knew it wasn't tangible did not make it seem any less imposing. It was a small, and insignificant comfort compared to his bleak looking future with it. Never mind what it would look like when he was on its doorstep. The huge, entire-front-of-the-house doorstep was framed in ye olde grande pillars that extended all the way up to the fourth or fortieth story, to the dramatically pointed, black shingled roof where there had to at _least_ be three different attics, and if Harry wasn't so biased, he might have called the mansion beautiful. Maybe if he wasn't about to probably die.

Who needed three hundred floors, anyway?

(Harry might be exaggerating a _little_ ).

At least Lucius had style, he thought, watching a flock of albino peacocks peck a trail through the lush green grass (and how was their grass so green in the dead of November? There wasn't even any snow on the property! There was a sprig of daisies below the ground floor windows. _Daisies_!).

He sighed, groaned, whined, but no one heard him because they- him, Ron, Hermione, and Neville, because the Golden Trio had morphed into the Golden _Quartette_ (Neville had returned over the summer after their fifth year tall, muscular, and _kick ass_ )- had decided it'd be best if he went alone with only an emergency portkey as companion. Well. That and his vigorous, back-breaking training from both the Order and dueling lessons with the others in the Room of Requirement.

Still, Harry had to ask- again- what he was doing here, if only to waste a few more seconds. And he knew the answer. It had all begun those couple of months ago. When he decided to _ask questions_.

At the time ( _before this suicidal stunt_ )- a young and tender age of 17 (still not quite ripe, as he had only been this old for all of two months)- Harry liked that the factors in his life were so black and white. Maybe not exactly _simple_ when looking at the scope of things, but when broken down to the basics, what things weren't? Simple, that is. For instance:

Voldemort was evil, therefore his followers were evil (even if some of them were decent blokes, but Harry didn't like to think about that because it made things much more complicated than necessary, and even more than he hated awkward memories and mention-ings of his brief enthrall with Cho Chang, Harry hated conflict).

And Harry was destined to defeat Voldemort because Dumbledore and the prophecy said so. It was all very plain, very obvious. He accepted this as easily as he accepted his loath for anything Potions or Severus Snape related, as easily as flying a broom, and as easily as getting mentioned in the _Prophet_ once a week.

Unfortunately, (and damn that word, because it had caused so much in Harry's life to become _utterly fucked up_ : like, _unfortunately_ , Bellatrix Lestrange was cracked up in the head and did kill Sirius Black, Harry's closest link to his parents, or _unfortunately_ , Peter Pettigrew was a backstabbing little shit who betrayed his parents, and don't forget _unfortunately_ , no one had ever thought to get the young Tom Riddle on some _fucking antidepressants!_ You get the idea, etcetera etcetera)

Harry couldn't stay very young or tender, for after his coming-of-age, he quickly began to realize that without Dumbledore around, Snape as headmaster, and a war bubbling under the surface of everyone's skin, the Order of the Phoenix was left dreadfully vulnerable, the Ministry was being overtaken, and damn it, why was Seamus' arse looking so good in those jeans? (Yes, all right. So Wizarding Britain as he knew it was being thrown into complete chaos, and he was moping about Hogwarts wondering why he couldn't get it up while thinking of Ginny, and why his mouth went so very dry when he met eyes with that bloke in Slytherin that always hung around Draco Malfoy (Bliane or Blair or something). Sometimes, he had a right to be a teenager, okay?)

It was easy enough, however, to forget his embarrassingly frequent mornings of ruined sheets with either "Zabini" or even "Fred and George", damn it, on the tip of his tongue when it became increasingly obvious that a certain megalomaniac was closing in, practically breathing down his neck (insert shiver here). It made Harry panic somewhat when he realized he would most likely _lose_. Because, come on! Had Dumbledore really believed the power to defeat the Dark Lord was love? Voldemort, with his decades of more knowledge and experience, defeated by _love_? He'd sooner be killed by dehydration because of all of these wet dreams than in glorious battle.

So the prospects weren't looking too good those days (and the _Daily Prophet_ liked to point that out a lot; just one of many in the list of "Potter's Faults Daily").

So, the Light or whatever was going to lose. But lose what exactly? It was a known fact that second to only ruling the world, Voldemort desperately wanted to kill Harry Potter. So he supposed he'd lose his life, but what did Voldemort have _planned_ for the Wizarding World once he got it? The Dark Lord's other list of priorities were eradicate the world of Muggles and Mudbloods and merry-go-rounds, though that last one was just speculation on Harry's part. It was kind of silly in his opinion, because how on earth could anyone stop Muggleborns from happening? And how the hell did Voldemort expect to rid the world of non-magical folk? There were _billions_!

But even so, didn't the Dark Wizards have a point? (The ones who weren't rallying up and shoving a _Crucio_ up some poor Muggle's arse). Wasn't it dangerous to leave Muggleborns with their families, exposing Wizarding secrets, taking the risk of discovery?

But Harry did his best to ignore questions like those, because they weren't very black and white, or simple in the least, and his wondering would likely lead to him asking questions and Aunt Petunia always said asking questions was a terrible thing, and Harry thought there was some value in that, because questioning on whether Dark was actually _Dark_ was sure to start conflict.

Damn, Harry really needed to stop thinking himself in circles.

"Hermione?" But some _times_ , Harry just couldn't help himself and well. He wasn't exactly known for his self-restraint,

"What exactly does the Ministry _do_ to keep families of Muggleborns quiet?"

His friend looked up from _Hogwarts: A History, Volume XII_ , Neville stopped prodding his cactus, and Ron stopped pretending to work on his Transfiguration essay.

"Not much, actually," she replied in her crisp, precise tone that she used when sharing knowledge, "Of the magical population in Britain, only about ten percent are Muggleborn and less than half of that are Squibs. The Ministry doesn't see that number as statistically significant enough to raise precaution. Most Muggle parents of magical children feel it would be crazy to try to convince someone that there are a such things as Witches and Wizards and all that."

Harry frowned; "Isn't that risky?"

Hermione shrugged.

"It's worked so far. And I quite agree. What else can they do? Those who have a hard time with the pressure can opt into a simple tongue tying hex. The parents aren't magical, so they can't evoke Unbreakable Vows of secrecy, and Muggles can't be assimilated into Wizarding society as there is no work for them and no one that would be willing to hire. Most Squibs already have to find jobs in the Muggle world."

But Muggle population was constantly increasing, pressing the borders of the two worlds to near bursting. At any moment, they could stumble upon their hidden properties and fields and towns- no anti-Muggle wards could hold them back forever. And sure, the _parents_ couldn't be assimilated, but what of the children? If they were taken away once their magic was discovered- Harry cut himself off. What was he thinking- taking a child away from his family? To be what, adopted into a magical one? That was hardly fair.

Still...

Harry shook his head. Enough of that. It was hardly time to be thinking of politics when a war was brewing. But that wasn't the only thing Harry started questioning. Soon after that first little whisper of doubt, Harry flooded Hermione with even _more_. It was all Moody's fault, he decided, for telling them Aurors used Dark spells and curses all the time- _for the sake of mankind_.

"Why exactly is a spell considered Dark? Shouldn't it depend on the context or on the caster's own magical affiliation?"

Or

"Who decided the Unforgivable curses are Unforgivable?"

OR

"You're saying there's no Dark or Light? Only magic?"

Harry couldn't help but think about Voldemort's words to him all those years ago: " _There is no good or evil; there is only power and those too weak to seek it,_ " which disturbed Harry greatly because he should only ever think of Voldemort when he was trying to figure out how to kill him and _definitely_ not somewhat agreeing with him. But telling himself not to think about the Dark Lord only made it all the more impossible _not_ to (and this point, Harry decided that he was a very complicated person- a magnet for trouble in which _no_ things were simple. Why _else_ would he have had to face a life-threatening situation of varying degrees at least once every year for the last seven?).

Through no fault of his own, it seemed Harry encountered one obstacle after another.

"If we all know things are so biased now, why are we so opposed to the change?" Harry asked, taking a sip of peach juice, and basking in the glowing energy of the Great Hall. It didn't really matter that that piece of shit Snape was their headmaster (because Harry had to grudgingly admit that the only thing that had changed was the Carrows were teaching there- and if they were honest, Umbridge had been loads worse-, DADA had unofficially morphed into just _Dark Arts_ , and Slytherin constantly had a landslide more points than any other house).

"What are you suggesting?" Hermione snapped, "That we rally behind a murderous, self-appointed _Dark Lord_ just because he allows more freedom to Vampires and Werewolves? In case you've forgotten, Voldemort-" and Ron did his obligatory choking noise in which chocolate milk and sausage was spewed at the name- "also postulates the complete termination of Muggleborns, as well as total dominion over all of Britain, and if you think his starvation for power ends there, you are sadly-"

"No, I haven't forgotten," Harry cut her off flippantly, used to her rants when he worded something poorly (which was often) when talking about borderline taboo topics (which was also increasingly more often, because Harry was slowly realizing that he was so badly informed about these things- what _had_ he been doing these past seven years in school? Oh, right. Defending the school from trolls, Unicorn-blood-drinking-Death Eaters, basilisks, supposed mass murderers, Polly-Juiced Death Eaters, Ministry toads, Draco Malfoy's idiocy, and more Death Eaters. No big deal. It was practically extra-curriculum, honest). "I was just wondering why the only sides in this war are Light versus Dark,"

"But they _aren't_!" Hermione insisted. "It's more than just Dark wizards versus Light! You have to account for every little group with their individual interests and motivations; the Order of the Phoenix, the Ministry, the students, their parents, people who consider themselves neutral, Death Eaters, those forced into Voldemort's service, Purebloods-"

"Okay, I get it!" Harry snapped moodily. His bushy haired friend looked offended, but Harry was too absorbed in his own thoughts to bother soothing her ruffled goose feathers. So it had only been him stupidly trapped in a child's understanding of war. He felt a bit sore about it.

"Anyway, who cares?" Ron asked, "In the end, our enemy at the moment is You Know Who and those who actively follow him. We can't take on a war with Ministry Law and their prejudice at the same time."

Neville nodded, leaning his chin on his hand, a piece of bacon sticking out of the side of his mouth (an oral fixation, because like any real badass, Neville had taken up smoking Muggle cigarettes... charmed to be less harmful to the lungs but nevertheless. Aesthetics); "Plus a political war is much more complicated than the type we're in. You can't throw hexes at a guy you don't agree with, and you have to take public opinion into account. Just look what it did to Fudge when he kept going against Dumbledore. Fighting against the Death Eaters isn't a problem because they're the the worst thing since Grindelwald."

Harry would argue Skelegrow was the worst thing since Grindelwald, but what did he know?

They had a point.

But. But _still_...

"What if..." he trailed off uncertainly, looking around and trying to actually think before spewing out some random question that would cause an uproar. Ginny sat on the other side of Ron and Hermione, her shoulders turned in the opposite direction as if to appear completely immersed in her conversation with Dean, but Harry knew it was just because she was still sore about Harry's last failed attempt at snogging her (failed because he had been so uncomfortable by it, he had started laughing which was apparently the most atrocious thing you could ever do to a girl, and that was news to Harry).

"Yeah?" Ron prompted.

Harry leaned in closer to Neville and across the table at Ron and Hermione, wondering if he should put up a privacy bubble, but shrugged the thought off.

"What if instead of trying to take on all opposing forces at once, we eliminate the..." he glanced at Hermione, not wanting to say 'competition', because she'd infer he was calling the war a big contest to see who had more weight or masculine pigheadedness to throw around, and 'enemies' sounded too aggressive, and that would likely spark some sort of long scolding session (bless her, really. It was just a reflex for her to make everyone around her say what they mean, and _only what they mean_ ).

"What if we eliminate the opposite sides through... well, through compromise. I mean, think about it. The Order is getting out of hand, arresting every other Dark affiliated wizarding family without any proof of supporting Voldemort. We're practically repeating what happened to Sirius, splitting families up, destroying their lives, because the Ministry is too stubborn to officially dub us as a Law Enforcement group because Scrimgeour is scared of being usurped, making it impossible for Order members to get the authorization to get a hand on Veritiserum. If we could just come to some sort of agreement to stop the extremes-"

"And just _who_ are you suggesting we come to an agreement with?" Hermione asked through her intelligent, narrowed eyes, "The Ministry that refused to acknowledge Voldemort's existence for a whole year, or a Dark Lord that has you labeled as _Undesirable Number 1_?"

(Totally untrue, in Harry's opinion. Who got voted in the top ten Most Wanted Men in _Witches Weekly_ if they weren't desirable?)

" _Compromise with You Know Who?_ " Ron hissed under his breath, so viciously Harry thought it was Parseltongue for a second.

"I didn't say that..." _Specifically_. Harry scratched the back of his neck nervously.

"You guys are giving me an upset stomach," Neville complained lightly- always the one to diffuse their more serious topics, especially in public. "This kind of thing is way too heavy to be discussing over breakfast,"

Harry and Hermione nodded absently, the conversation coming to a gentle end. Ron's earlier horror drained away, and he smiled gratefully. It left an unsettling feeling in Harry's stomach that lingered with him all day, through Slughorn's lesson, the sister Carrow's sorry excuse of Muggle Studies (she once tried to convince the whole class that Muggles are a separate species because all Muggles have one less spinal disc than wizards; you will be happy to know Crookshanks gnawed the last bit of coccyx off of the classroom's "Anatomically Correct Muggle Skeleton" and Carrow is merely one monumental idiot), and Hagrid's Thestral foals.

He couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if he just _tried_ to talk to Voldemort. He couldn't be as insane as everyone insisted- no one that crazy got as far or as successful as he had. Or at least with functional insanity. Over the last two years, Voldemort had gathered momentum at a startling rate that left Harry feeling overwhelmed. Evil or not, he could appreciate an invulnerable leader.

Then again, the Dark Lord wasn't exactly invulnerable. Dumbledore had spent his last living months teaching Harry all about Voldemort's twisted and tragic past and his supposed Horcruxes. Initially, Harry had decided to not return for his final year at school, and spend the time searching for the pieces of soul that would lead to victory, but then he had thought about how dreadfully unprepared he was and had spent the summer training with Shacklebolt instead (which was extremely well invested time, as he had discovered how utterly pathetic his dueling knowledge and skills were).

Besides, where the _hell_ was he supposed to start looking anyway? So stumped he was, Harry didn't even like to think about the impossible quest, and quite frankly pretended Horcruxes didn't even exist most of the time. Any time Neville or Hermione or Ron hinted at the subject he'd not-so-subtly say something about the weather or something degrading about Snape (that always put him in a better mood).

"But we've got to start at _some_ point!" they'd insist, and Harry tried not to listen, outright _refused_ to listen. He was actually quite bitter with Dumbledore for leaving him with nearly zero information regarding where they may be hidden, only giving him a hazy list of guessed objects they could be, and maybe it was an immature tantrum, but it was an immature tantrum Harry was good at throwing.

"Do you think he went all the way to seven?" Ron asked in a solemn voice that night as they sat around the fire like they had done so many times before in the last seven years. Harry, at his cue, was about to say something snarky about Snape's receding hairline, but Hermione beat him to it.

"Definitely," she said with no hesitation, "Think of it this way. Voldemort is the type to completely break all boundaries of magic. He's cheated death as many times as Harry, created a body for himself, grown so powerful that everyone in Europe knows who he is... he even gave Harry Parseltongue, even if it was an accident. He's definitely the type-"

But Harry stopped listening because he suddenly thought a thought he wished he had never thought but could never ever un-think... What were the Horcruxes Dumbledore had guessed?

Guant's ring.

Tom Riddle's diary.

Hufflepuff's cup.

Some sort of heirloom from Slytherin and Ravenclaw.

Nagini.

What was the seventh one? _What was the seventh one_?

(Why could Harry speak to snakes? Why were their wands brothers? Why could he sometimes see flashes of Voldemort's life and emotions? Why could he see through Nagini's perspective? Why were their minds linked beyond Legilimency? Why did he feel what the Dark Lord felt- _as if he was a part of him)_.

"...arry. Harry!"

He snapped out of his horror to find his three best friends, the most amazing, loyal, loving, courageous people he had ever had the pleasure to know. They were looking at him with concern. He was so stunned at his own stupidity for not realizing sooner, for not _knowing-_! How could he have had a piece of Voldemort attached to him all this time and never have a clue?

"We can stop talking about all this if you're not feeling well," Neville suggested softly, and Ron cupped Harry's narrow shoulder with one of his warm, Quiddich-calloused hands. Harry opened his mouth, because he needed to tell them, needed them to know, because the information was too large for him to keep on his own.

"You look awful, mate," Ron mumbled, his mouth pulled down on one side.

"We're sorry," Hermione jumped in frantically- because after Harry had gone through that extremely moody 15, she had been extremely careful for fear he'd blow up at them- and they scooted into his sides so that it wasn't just his front burning from the warmth of the fire. "We're all still raw from what happened with Professor Dumbledore, and we shouldn't have even brought it up. Why don't we just work on that Charms-"

"I'm a Horcrux," he finally spat out, so quickly the words bled together, and Harry was sure his friends had to take a moment to translate (" _Immaorcrux"_ ).

A heavy silence coated the Common Room, the crackling fireplace the only noise. None of them dared breathe. Harry could feel their wide eyes on him, but he couldn't look at them- not fearing their horror or fear or disgust because he knew better than to think they'd react that way, but still a bit too fucking _freaked out_ to look at the truth etched into their faces just yet.

"Blimey," Ron and Neville croaked in unison, and it might have been funny if they weren't talking about the most vile thing- the darkest of all Dark Arts- clinging to Harry's own _soul, his mind, his very being_.

There was no other truth, because, really how _had_ they not ever thought of it before? It was so obvious, _so painfully obvious,_ that someone _had_ to have considered it before, and Harry didn't even have to ponder before Dumbledore's name popped up in his head again. How the man could have kept something as... as monumental, as _crucial_ as this a secret was unfathomable- this changed the entire bloody _war_ for fuck's sake- but how could Dumbledore have possibly gone about telling him anyway?

" _Sorry Harry, but you've actually been what you've been trying to destroy this whole time; would you like a lemon drop, my boy?"_

"Do you know what this means?" Hermione whispered, and he wondered why they were so scared to talk normally, but he found himself unable to raise his own voice as well, not having the strength in his lungs (his entire body felt like a heavy mass of numb jelly).

"That the only way for us to beat Voldemort is for me to die? That's all-" his voice cracked (because he _might have known_ that he would die in this war, but now he _did know_ ) "The vessel of the soul fragment has to be _irreversibly_ destroyed, you know?"

His friends made noises of disagreement and outrage in the back of their throats, and Hermione actually clutched to him, her hands and lips white, her grip iron-clad around each of his arms. Harry felt invincible in between the three of them. So safe here at Hogwarts (even though that was a lie as well, and it just felt like the entire world was collapsing around him).

" _No_!" Hermione hushed, totally appalled, "It means that Voldemort _can't kill you_ ,"

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard (but also another lie).

"He... he can't?"

Harry glanced between his two male friends, but they looked just as clueless.

"Think about it," Hermione insisted, not at the point of frustration yet (because she was quite used to them being a few steps behind her mental processing),"If Voldemort knew you were a Horcrux he'd place all of his focus on getting his hands on you-"

"That's new," Ron cut in dryly, but Hermione, accustomed to his interruptions just as well, didn't even pause for breath.

"He'd drop everything- raids, meetings, expanding his empire; all of it in an enraged panic," she said breathlessly, "And then we strike while he's vulnerable. You said you wanted to try compromise. What if we could somehow negotiate: using _you_. You're believed to be so angelic that if you threatened to kill yourself in order to defeat him, he'd believe it! The whole _world_ would believe it! And we could bluff about knowing everything about the Horcruxes- he'll be so horrified that he won't think to interrogate the details from us- so it won't even matter that we don't know where they're hidden!"

"That's bloody _insane_ , Hermione," Ron muttered in disbelief, "We're talking about an evil mastermind here. What would stop him from locking Harry up like some trophy or... Or catamite-"

" _Catamite!_ " Harry exclaimed, alarmed.

Courtesan, at least!

"You never know! Besides, what would we be negotiating, anyway? 'Pretty please stop torturing and killing people and we'll stop hunting your Horcruxes, cross my heart, hope to die'?"

" _Ron_ ," Hermione said in that familiar exasperation which simultaneously expresses fondness. "I only meant it as an idea. We could always look into finding a way to get the piece of soul out of Harry that doesn't end in tragic death."

Neville raises a hand to intervene, as usual.

"No, no," Harry said. "Keep going with the first one. It sounds infinitely more possible anyway. What if we did approach him? It'd be so surprising, we'd have the upper hand, at least for the beginning. And if we could just come up with a list of very specific conditions we could tackle a governmental reform together- loosening the restriction on what's considered Dark, giving Vampires and Werewolves the rights they deserve, and coming to an agreement about Muggleborns. And with Scrimgeour being such a thorn in _everyone's_ side, he might actually go for it."

They were all tense with the possibilities (impossibilities).

And that night they spun up a plan involving approaching Voldemort and his followers, spent the following weeks mapping out every detail, every issue so carefully and specifically worded so as to prevent any loopholes for the slithery little snakes they'd be dealing with (but Harry himself was rather snake-y, and Hermione was a genius and ruthless at that and Ron a brilliant strategist; so they had this pretty tightly wrapped).

So he was a Horcrux. And he was probably crazy for thinking he could assuage a Dark Lord and get him to cooperate. But he had three best friends who hadn't freaked out or abandoned him or refused to open their minds to talking to Voldemort. He could deal with all the bad stuff later.

It may have been strange, but it felt right for Harry to reach for one of each of their hands. In the light and warmth of the dying embers, he smiled hesitantly at them, and they smiled back, finally feeling like they had accomplished something after months of nothingness.

Unfortunately (and _damn it_ , there that word was _again_ , ruining everything) his warm feelings didn't last long. Between Quidditch practice, Potions without Snape's admittedly helpful cheater-book, and those painfully quiet nights with only his thoughts to keep him company, Harry was forced to brood and stew and panic and all those other stressful states of emotion. And it was usually on nights, when Neville and Ron and Seamus and Dean were fast asleep, blissful snores blocked out with an extra-strength _Silencio_ , that Harry found himself terrified and envying them. Envying their freedom- they did not have a prophecy hanging over their heads- their peace of mind- they did not have a mass murderer peeking into their heads at any given moment- and lastly, their lackadaisical days that did not turn perilous at every turn (except for Ron and Neville, since each was guilty by association with both their close Order ties and Harry, himself).

So here he was about three weeks later. At Malfoy Manor (sort of. He was still gazing in dread at it from a semi-safe distance) trying to work up the gonads to take the journey. This was, as he saw it, his last chance to back out. Though Hermione had claimed his last chance had been the day before, because " _If you don't think you'll come back with progress, don't bother coming back at all_ ".

She was a dear, really.

Harry made another whining noise as the hour grew later. It wouldn't do to interrupt their dinner- which would surely start in a couple of hours. But it was likely his appearance would postpone dinner anyhow due to the unusual circumstances (and Harry thought to himself: What with, I don't know, showing up on a Saturday afternoon to _have tea and talk politics with Lord-bloody-Voldemort_ ) _._

The key, Hermione had said, was to prove his intelligence and worth as soon as possible, because Tom Riddle never had the patience to deal with anything he thought was below him. Which was pretty much everything, Harry would have liked to remind her; but that hadn't seemed conducive to their plans. Oh, yeah- a real piece of cake.

Never mind the Dark Lord's had two and a half years of Snape and Malfoy Jr.'s reports on his "Gryffindorish foolishness". It was the reason he was dressed in new, expensive robes (since he was seventeen, he now had full access to the Potter vaults, and boy, was he _loaded_ ), and had Hermione comb his hair semi-flat (now rather useless since he had spent way too much time standing on a windy hill, being a moody teenager).

 _Forget it_ , Harry told himself, _Forget it and just swallow the pill like it is. You have to do this, Harry; I want to do this_.

And he did want to do this. He wanted the war to end, didn't want to be the Chosen One anymore. Find a boyfriend, even (because, _okay_ , he had finally admitted to himself that Draco in his Quidditch uniform was _hot,_ especially when he got all wrinkled up and ruffled after a good game). Adopt kids (and Harry found himself pondering the idea of Magical medical advances, and how far they had come along in _reproduction,_ until he realized how utterly ridiculous he was being- even if he was stalling). Get a dog named Snowball, or something. _Live_.

_Fuck the quest for Horcruxes- I'm going to be an astronaut!_

Okay, _enough_.

Harry took a deep steadying breath, wondering who the hell came up with the idea to send him _alone_ (Neville) and _why_ ( _To make it as honest as possible! If it's you alone, they'll know you're acting on your "Hero complex"_ ), before finally turning on the spot with nothing but a successfully quiet pop.

And yes, for all of those wondering, Malfoy Manor was so much more intimidating up close and personal.

Harry stared down at the tall, black iron gate before taking the four steps that would bring him through it, the inky fog it was reduced to whisking off the ends of his hair and chilling him. The ivory cobble crunched under his feet, and he waited for a rush of Death Eaters to come from the still distant front door, for even though the gate allowed passage, it still gave siren to an enemy's arrival. He stood there calmly, no longer feeling anxious, because it was _go time_.

He would spend the days before with hours of no sleep, be unable to eat- before a Quidditch game or one of these missions he ended up on way too frequently to live to an old age- but once he was there, all nervousness left and only his job remained.

Lights flickered on from inside, and on either side of the front door- huge, double, like the Great Hall or something- shone through the stained glass windows. _Here we are_.

But there was no stampede like Harry thought, no shrieks or outcries. Just a very tall figure with a billowing cape- _and what the bloody hell was Snape doing away from Hogwarts_?

Harry closed his eyes and grimaced at the rotten luck. The Headmaster froze when he finally saw who was standing at the other end of the walk, his pale face twisting into something of shocked disgust, thought it was hard to tell at this distance what was expression and what was general ugliness.

" _Potter_! If you think your status is going to grant you a pass out of instant expulsion for leaving Hogsmeade, _you are wrong_ ," he hissed loudly at him. "What do you think you are doing here?"

Harry strode up, just out of reach of the dungeon bat who he knew was dying to grab him by the scruff of his neck and throttle him to death; "I have an appointment. If you please-" and he gestured with his hand for Snape to step aside, but this only made the man livid, his nostrils flaring.

"So arrogant-" he choked out, so gone in his anger that he couldn't form words, and Harry hoped someone else would hurry up and come to the door, because dealing with Snape alone like this was pretty scary, "To come when the Dark Lord is present- I am going to disembowel you-"

"That's all very nice, but why don't we see what the Dark Lord thinks?" Harry said, trying his hand at being soothing (but don't worry, it definitely wasn't working; he was told once he had the effect and subtlety of a blast-ended skrewt. By Snape, actually).

And no one ever calls Voldemort the Dark Lord when they don't support him, so that was finally what made Snape clamp his thin scowl shut.

"Would you mind leading the way?"

Might as well use an Inner Circle Death Eater to get a meeting.

" _Absolutely not,_ you-"

"Fine, I'm sure I can get a house elf to show me around. See you at breakfast tomorrow, Headmaster," and Harry made a dash around the man sputtering with rage (because he just didn't know what to do, and they had been right- the advantage with surprise) with his natural born and honed quickness, and was at the door before the ex-potions professor had a chance to snag him by the robes.

"You _insufferable bra_ -"

Harry slammed the door shut, and the noise echoed in the eerie quiet of the house. Though, it made sense, since Lucius would be at work, Draco at school, Narcissa out with Mrs. Zabini and Mrs. Parkinson (they had planned all of this so carefully, but it was nice to see they were right about this part- Snape definitely hadn't been in their equation- and he hoped he remained as lucky), so the only one here was Voldemort himself. Hopefully he didn't have any company.

Harry glanced around the entrance hall, and holy shit, if it wasn't the most gaudy place he'd ever seen (and somewhere, the entire Malfoy family felt a stabbing pain right in their galleon plated hearts).

Well, all right. It was pretty, he supposed. And surprisingly sunny (too sunny- Harry was suspicious, though he had no valid reason to be, over something as trivial as lighting; at least over windows anyway). But there was just too _much_ \- a crystal archway that lead to the rest of the house, tall columns, stone vines running along the smooth, slate bricked walls with what looked to be real grapes hanging off of them, the floors, a dark, mysterious marble. Merlin. Did all Purebloods live like this? (Well, ones that weren't Blood Traitors, Harry supposed, with a loving, passing thought to the Weasleys).

Harry quickly shot a nasty bugger of a locking charm on the doors (one that would only allow those who answer the question inscribed on the other side of the door correctly, and Harry had chosen a question dealing with Muggle plumbing systems) and moved past the front foyer, for fear Snape would decide to chase after him after all and make truth on his disemboweling threats. He sent a muffling charm to his shoes so that they would make no noise on the polished floor.

There were no portraits in the wide area he moved to- a living room of sorts, with lounge couches, chairs, and a large fireplace, and Harry thought of closing down the Floo as well, but shrugged. Any act as aggressive as that would only lead to trouble later on, and it was crucial that Harry made no real threat (closing off the front doors, while annoying, was hardly baleful).

There was a huge staircase with an intricately engraved banister of a material Harry couldn't (and wouldn't try to) name. He was about to start the ascent when he heard an unmistakable voice coming through a pair of closed doors off to the right and at the mouth of a wide, brightly lit hall. And hearing it did something strange to his stomach- something that he hadn't felt since he was worried they might realize bringing him to Hogwarts had all been a mistake and ship him back to his aunt and uncle when he was eleven and waiting to be sorted (He'd been a dark little tyke, hadn't he?).

"Yes, Severus has told me that it must have been one of your brother-in-law's, ah, peacocks that caused the alarm. There was nothing out there."

Did that slimy git expect him to go back to Hogwarts or something? As bloody if! When else would he ever get the opportunity to wear these new robes?

Extending his _feel_ for the hall (Neville had taught him a theory that all magic could be felt- different, perhaps for each person, so there was little solid research on it- but could be felt all the same. Like the warmth of your wand's fit in your hand, or how Harry felt while on a broom; Neville said his was a tingling sensation in his fingernails, stronger for stronger amounts of magic. Hermione said hers was the smell of ashes. And Luna said the Blibbering Humdingers told her the presence of magic.)

The familiar pricks in his scar (of course, he'd feel it through _that_ , the one place on his body forged by magic itself- it was why he had felt it when in close proximity of others, but had always assumed a connection dealing with Voldemort, which still existed as well) grew as he drew closer. One door was cracked, and from what he could tell, it was a dining room. There was a long, sleek black table which Harry figured was obligatory in every wealthy household, and at the head, in all his great and terrible beauty, was Voldemort, in a high backed throne, obviously of Slytherin descent.

"But it would appear..." his voice was high and those scarlet eyes drilled through the cracked doors and Harry's scar sent a nearly unpleasant tingling skidding across his hairline that made his scalp prickle, "that Severus was lying."

Harry knew that if he himself could feel the pressing presence of the man's ( _snake's_ ) magical power, Voldemort could definitely feel his, so taking his cue, Harry eased the door open with one hand and was totally glad he looked good in rich clothes because Voldemort was _devouring_ him with those eyes (and that sounded way more sexual than Harry intended, but it's what he felt).

"I'm pretty persuasive when I need to be," he replied in Snape's defense, and why would he ever defend Snape in the first place?- but he really just needed something to break the ice, the silence ( _that stare_ ). Seemed better than a wave and a 'lo.

The men standing before him- Lestranges, he knew immediately with a curl to his upper lip- both raised their wands simultaneously, but Harry's raised a hand with another patient grimace, pulling up the lip-locking spell from his core and to his fingers until the skin there burned- wandless magic was a _bitch_. But Hermione just _adored_ it, and envied Harry and Ron for having a naturalness for it (though to Harry, it took way too much effort to be anything natural). The Lestranges' curses stopped mid-mouthed, as their lips made an audible zipping noise, nothing but a seam above their chins to be seen, and Harry frowned slightly, because if he had been using his wand, he would have had them silenced before they even _thought_ of a proper hex.

"Now gentlemen, I hardly think that's necessary. I won't bring my wand out if you don't," Harry said, though kind of felt idiotic as he'd literally just done what he said he wouldn't; and it was so much smoother sounding than he actually was (Harry never spoke this refined- he was a teenage boy for Christ's sake- but he kind of liked how he sounded all cultured and archaic).

He turned his attention away from the wizards desperately trying to cast the counterspell and to the white skinned (literally white, people- practically silver in its scaliness) man leaned back against his throne, long, skinny fingers made to steeple in front of his chest, the Elder Wand in between them.

"I need to talk to you," Harry finally forced himself to say (because nervous or not, this man was the bloody most powerful wizard alive), and when Voldemort looked to mock him, Harry dared cut in, "No really. I've got a few things to say that I think you'll find rather... important. Alone."

Voldemort waved a hand in his men's direction, and their mouths finally opened with relieved gasps; "Rodolphus, your arm. Rabastan, please incapacitate Mr. Potter,"

The man on the left of the two made to follow orders immediately, nearly tripping over his long black robes, baring his Dark Mark to his Lord, who mercilessly stabbed at it with the wand, and Harry groaned in irritation, raising his holly rod, _just in case_.

"Fine," he snapped, lifting his dueling arm to get the obnoxiously ornate sleeve out of the way (and Harry definitely came to the conclusion that efficiency was way more important than image, because he was not about to get killed because of some stupid cumbersome _fabric_ ). Here was hoping he could get at least a _smidgen_ of the Dark Lord's interest before a hoard of Death Eaters really _did_ come stampeding.

"Not alone is fine too, I guess."

He saw Nagini lounged on the back of the throne as he heard the first apparition, and saw the always startling blonde hair of Lucius Malfoy from the corner of his eye. With a coy smile that totally hadn't ever belonged on his face until he and Ron delved into life-time Wizarding Chess (like they had encountered his first year all those years ago when trying to get to the Philosopher's Stone) in the RR, and risked all their lives practically daily with each move, Harry looked back up at the calm dark wizard mastermind and hissed.

" _Horcruxes_."

Nagini's head twisted towards him at the sound of her own language, and despite the racket of ever increasing apparating, Harry knew without a doubt Voldemort heard him- for even before he had finished, an ugly mustard yellow hex was flying toward him so fast Harry barely had time to put up a shield. He smirked imperiously at him anyway from behind his _Protego_ , and the Death Eaters stood, high strung and waiting for orders but curious and confused.

" _Are you interested now?_ " he hissed, heart pounding. " _Are you listening?_ "

Voldemort did not even stand, nor did Harry see with his eyes until a second nearly too late; his marble hand shot out, as the Crutiatus sailed down the table at him, but it wasn't with intent to strike- just a warning to him, to the occupants that this would and could (and most likely) turn to combat.

" _And what would an imbecilic child like yourself know of such things?_ " the Dark Lord finally asked in return, in such a soft, enveloping voice, Harry wondered whether he was speaking in his mind, though Harry saw the lipless mouth move.

" _Oh_ ," Harry croaked.

" _Just about yours. How many. What they are_ ," Harry continued, trying to go as quickly but confidently as possible- to beat the bubbling rage he could feel piercing through his scar. " _Dumbledore told me, before you had him killed- or his assumptions at least_."

Voldemort's already slitted eyes narrowed further, looking so menacing, and for a second Harry was breathless just looking at him, dared to play with that fire, almost needed to get closer. He took a step forward that had all of the Death Eaters raising their previously slacking wands at him. But they could do nothing without orders.

So Harry dared some more.

He walked around the table (hoping to god he wouldn't bump into Bellatrix Lestrange, because mission or no, it would be a _long fucking while_ before he could bear to even _think_ of her), came so close to the men and women that their robes brushed him as he passed.

All was silent. Harry worked to control his breathing, to keep it slow and quiet, and stared passed the chrome masks at Voldemort's leering face. And finally, the crowd took the hint (when did Voldemort get so many followers that could drop their duties in the middle of day?) and parted for him the rest of the way. He did not stop when he got to the small platform the throne was upon, way past the point of his head splitting open from the pulsing rage and magic penetrating his scar. He did not stop as Voldemort silently snarled in disgust as he came closer.

He did not stop even as the ivory end of the Elder Wand singed the place above his heart until he was sitting on the edge of the table, right where Voldemort's plate would be if he _had_ interrupted dinner, legs crossed (and Harry had no idea he could move with the grace of a snake like that, but he liked it, and realized vaguely he may be becoming what he very well hated the most. Well- besides Snape, anyway).

" _But you see_ ," he said, leaning his weight on one arm. " _He left out one tiny detail_."

And he would have asked Voldemort quite cheekily if he wanted to know, but his life was on the line here, and he wasn't feeling all that Gryffindorish anymore with those simmering coals scorching his exposed skin. " _That on that night, on October 31st of '81, when somehow your spell rebounded by what Dumbledore claims is love_ ," and for the very first time,Voldemort and Harry shared something: skepticism; and they are repulsed by their obvious similar feelings, " _your weakened soul tore again._ "

And he could see the cogs and gears whirring away in the serpentine man's face, the way his eyes no longer bore on him, but through him, the way the pressure of the wand at his chest intensified, definitely burning a hole in his ridiculous(ly expensive albeit attractive) robes. Slowly, Harry reached up, and the movement made Voldemort's eyes snap to the cause, only to see the teen's slim fingers sliding down the Elder Wand reverently, stopping when they came to where fingers met fingers, but only briefly before Harry forged ever forward (and he had no idea why he suddenly _had_ to feel what those silver scales were like, what the magic rushing under was like, but it was a deep enough desire it made his entire body _quake_ \- and he was suddenly reminded why he should be terrified by the man before him, but the terror only served to spur him on).

Voldemort was just too stunned, Harry guessed, by the information (because like with his friends, they had no choice but to accept it as the truth, _because there was no other truth, no other alternative_ ) or perhaps by his own boldness, and Harry just marveled how he gasped with the Death Eaters who were obsessively watching, because the touch of Voldemort's skin on his literally _stung_ \- all the way to the bones of his fingertips and up his tendons. And he just knew Voldemort felt it too, because he dropped his wand and, consequently his hand, an inch lower- like Draco had when Dumbledore offered him safety up in the tower a year ago.

But neither of the two at present were offering (or would receive anything close to) safety, especially not from each other. (Incidentally, the whole thing, like with Draco and Dumbledore, would likely end in murder.)

" _I'm your horcrux_ ," he whispered in a low, hoarse voice (with adrenaline and power; the way a man's voice gets when he's flirting with Death). And Harry didn't know why he was suddenly inclined to make it more intimate than it already was (Your soul is _inside of me_ , Voldemort- it really couldn't get any more intimate than that), but didn't bother trying to figure it out because he was just an impulsive, stupid Gryffindor (or that's what he'd tell himself later, if he survived the next few hours), just was suddenly grabbing a hand that should have resisted and pressing those (delectable) still _stinging_ fingers to his scar, and ignored the burning pain (that was suddenly so much more than just a headache) as best he could; " _Yours_ ,"

He couldn't help but close his eyes, and just venerate at the searing, skin-raising waves of _something_ coursing through his flustered veins, and heard distantly through his own relaxed breathing the Dark Lord dismiss his gathered followers just as easily as he had called them here (and if Harry were one of them, he'd be pissed to have been interrupted in his daily life for no reason).

"I should have known," he said in that high voice, that sounded so much silkier than Harry recalled, long after the last pair of frantically shuffling feet had closed the dining room doors. The fingers at his scar fell away, ending the buzz, and the teen drowsily opened his eyes, not sure if he could handle Voldemort alone, but not really having a choice. "This changes my plans- I can no longer seek to kill you."

And Harry was shocked at how easily Voldemort accepted that, and it must have shown on his face, because Voldemort's mouth curled in a cruel sneer as he swept in a slow paced and thoughtful circle behind the throne.

"Did you think the entire war revolved around you, child? That my number one goal was to rid the world of you? If that were the case, you wouldn't have had the quiet school year you've had so far. I have other things to tend to than work to kill one teenage boy for petty revenge. In fact, it was quite easier to have you tucked away at Hogwarts under Severus' watchful eye."

Harry frowned, actually fucking relieved he wasn't the priority anymore (if he ever was; how long had Voldemort seen him as _petty_? That couldn't possibly be true! Everything they had gone through together wasn't anything like _petty_!) Voldemort was suddenly before him, a steely grip on his chin, and Harry fought not to twist away in disgust, but the contact made him break out in shivers again, like the piece of soul residing in his body knew its parent soul was near, rushing to surface of his skin, and casting him in a cocoon of _delight_.

"However, that all must be behind us now, little Horcrux," Voldemort said, as one side of his thin lips lifted. "I do not know what you thought you'd accomplish by coming here and revealing this to me," and at this, he ejected Harry's chin away, and Harry fought not to make any noise of protest. "Nor do I care. I suppose you've told your _friends_ \- the Mudblood and Blood Traitor- all about this, no? They will be dealt with-" Harry bit out a growl, but the grip was back, and Voldemort was so much closer, towering over him, trapping him against the table- "And _you_. You will be put into my captivity. Immediately."

"Do you think I'd be stupid enough to just tell my friends about all this? When they're the first people you'd go after?" he half-bluffed.

"The Order is finished without their shining beacon," Voldemort snarled in glee, not even acknowledging his lie.

"The _Order_ ," Harry hissed, angry that the Dark Lord thought he relied so much on a group of adults that took no pleasure in confiding to or trusting him, jerking his chin away, "thinks I am happily sitting at Honeydukes, placing bets on who will win the World Cup! The Order thinks I don't have the proper education to take some credible _initiative_ in this war outside of being the _Daily Prophet_ 's punching bag."

Harry was glad he was so angry, because that would have never left the confines of his mind had he not been (because doubting your own side in the middle of open hostilities was not very Golden-Boyish); "I came here on my own accord, and I came here with a plan," he stated clearly, hoping to at least be a little intimidating. "You so much as twitch in the direction of my friends, and I will _Avada Kedavra_ Nagini right up the ass- and myself!- so hard, you'll feel it in your bloody _teeth_."

He was thrown onto his back against the black wood of the table, one of Voldemort's bone white hands wrapped tightly around his throat. The other jabbed his wand painfully at his carotid artery, the weight of his body pressing the life out of him, and Harry lay limp, groaning quietly, and completely out of breath at that all-consuming _bite_ of skin contact (and again, Harry couldn't just call it hurt, but he didn't know what else it was either, making his blood rush a torrent of heat), because it was so much more _intense_ this close. He forced his clenched eyes open, couldn't form words past the embarrassing whine escaping from his mouth until he saw the slight tremor in the Dark Lord's neck tendons.

 _Ha_ \- he wasn't the only one _feeling_.

"What's wrong?" he rasped, "Didn't feel it when the diary and ring got destroyed? Do you even know your locket's missing?"

The _Crucio_ did not miss this time, and Harry was reminded of _real_ pain, starting from the wand that was shredding the skin on his neck. Felt his spine boil and melt, felt glass shatter in his eyes, felt his fingernails peel back as he writhed against Voldemort's thin chest, those throaty mewls he'd been releasing morphed to screeches he did not know his voice could do (those pesky Death Eaters listening at the door would surely hear and rejoice). And then, in the lifetime of fifteen seconds, it was gone- nothing but sweat and the terrible trembling and rawness of his throat, the spasms of his sweaty back as it unwound from its tight arch.

"It felt something like that," Voldemort said in a quiet voice, his hands moving to either side of Harry's shoulders, and Harry saw his smirk through swampy vision.

Harry's teeth chattered- in shock from the Unforgivable, in anger- but could not let himself give up. His shaking palms found smooth wrists that instantly muffled the raw memory of _Crucio_ , and _why was touching Voldemort so easy?_

"I'm serious," he said, voice a scratchy croak, "You know I'd do it. And I'm _tired_ of this war. So if you'll humor me an hour or two, I'm positive we can reach results that will please us both. I'm not asking for a surrender. Or giving you one," he added warily.

"I have no intention of listening to a child-"

"I stopped being a child the moment I saw Cedric Diggory drop dead in that graveyard!" he interrupted harshly, and he thought he'd get another curse shot into his veins, but Voldemort just yanked his arms away from Harry's soft grip to slam the teen's own wrists to the cold table.

"It's true! And if you've had a 'watchful eye' on me, you'll know I've been _busy_." _Working, learning, training, growing up, right there with Ron and Hermione, becoming the dangerous weapon the Order expected him to be._

Well Harry was tenacious at least. Put it on his epitaph.

"I just want a compromise," Harry stated carefully. "A _formal_ , written treaty."

Voldemort inhaled through his teeth is disgust at the idea; "You said that you did not have the support of your Order. On whose authority would you draft a _treaty_?"

Harry gave a mean smile.

"I'm not talking about that," he said, "I'm talking politics. _Magic_. I'm talking an Unbreakable Vow of written and witnessed law between you and I that will go into action when Pius Thickness and I run for office in the summer after my last year at Hogwarts."

"A seventeen-year-old as Minister-"

"Of course not-" and Harry had to stop cutting the man off because he kept looking more violent with every second. "I'll run for Undersecretary; no one will miss Umbridge. I wouldn't want to be Minister for Magic anyhow. I'd be crazy to want it. Anyway, through your little puppet, and my popularity with housewives and children we will surely steal the hearts of thousands. We'll crush Scrimgeour. And with our nice vows, we'll reform Britain practically overnight. Together."

"And the resistance?" Voldemort hissed, actually interested, because Death Eaters don't grow on bloody trees and with the Order operating under desperate measures as things dragged on, they were getting knocked off at an infuriating rate, Harry was sure.

"What will they be able to do but watch as I advocate tolerance for all sorts of things? Dark Arts at Hogwarts, lessened restrictions on suspect artifacts, you in the center of consolidated power. Maybe a tad blood supremacy to pacify yo-... Ah, the Purebloods," he amended quickly, "And of course put an end to illegal torture and murder, and this ridiculous crusade to rid the world of Muggleborns. And I said _illegal_ torture and murder. When you'll be making half the laws, does that really sound so horrible?"

The Dark Lord looked angry again because it sounded an awful lot like Harry was talking down to a child, and Harry looked at the frustrated, stubborn face, knew he must look just the same, and smiled. The genuine expression seemed to burn the man, who reared in head up in- distrust? Disgust? But Harry laughed- not in a mocking way, just a serene chortle that made him realize how _insane_ this whole situation was, but hadn't the _Prophet_ been saying he was nutters for years anyway?

"They might be right," Harry said, wiggling his hands free of Voldemort's so he could reach up while the Dark Lord gave a questioning noise, "I might be totally crazy."

He boldly cupped each of those cheeks, feeling the smooth bristle of silvery white scales on his cheekbones with slow swipes of his thumbs, mesmerized by the exotic attractiveness they held and almost purring at that sharp throb where their skin met (and that was _so wrong_ , but Harry was still thinking he was loonier than Luna so he didn't judge his actions much). And Voldemort was so easy to make angry, even when he wasn't trying to provoke it-

"How dare you so casually touch me, you unworthy, filthy, presumptuous Halfbl-"

"You are so incredibly cute when you get angry like this,"

And he said it so seriously, so suddenly, that the man could only stare, snake-like eyes as wide as he'd ever seen them, and yes, they really were that red, that fiery, anger momentarily forgotten. Harry used this to his advantage; pulling himself up and pulling Voldemort down.

" _Potter_ ," he hissed, not sounding like he was happy at all with Harry's newfound insanity.

"Hmm?"

They were breathing the same spot of air, and Harry felt pretty filthy with the direction his mind was going, and he wondered if Voldemort wasn't getting flashes of it with how strongly he was thinking. And really, Voldemort could stop this at any time he wanted, throw Harry out in the cold on his arse, or lock him up in a dungeon, or _something_ besides letting Harry swallow the space between them until human lips met that ironically ivory mouth of murder.

It wasn't so much about the kiss (that Harry didn't think counted as snogging anyway because neither moved- their mouths- a bit) than it was the skin contact, and, _oh,_ did that make Harry quiver.

He felt it seep into his tongue, his throat that had been hurt from the previous torture (of the man his was latching to, no less) and moved his hands from Voldemort's ( _Voldemort's!_ ) face to the nape of his neck, where he was met with more soft skin mixed with scales and more of those hurting, something-else spikes through his hands and down his arms, and it was just _amazing_ \- like sparks-behind-his-eyes amazing (literally, his vision was blacking in and out in white bursts- white scales, white skin). And then, cold hands were at Harry's waist, beneath his shirt, and he actually shouted and clawed at the feeling- of just touching his ribcage and navel.

" _What is this curse?_ " a voice hissed right next to his ear, and it was the last thing he heard, echoed by his own groan, before they both passed out.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Harry? Harry! For the love of- wake up!"_

"Mmmdemort," Harry blurted out through crusted lips, swatting at those annoying hands shaking him, "Who's'ere?"

"Well, I'm not Voldemort!" the voice snapped, totally affronted, in that matter-of-fact voice that Harry knew belonged to one certain bushy-haired witch, and one _only_.

"What do expect to be on his mind when who knows what's happened to him? _Roses_?" Ron snorted from behind the muggy dream clouds Harry had yet to rise from.

"No- of course that wasn't- I didn't mean-"

Harry peeled his crusty eyelids open a tiny bit to test the lighting, thought _ohmigod, best sleep ever_ , and blinked a few times when he deemed the environment to be comfortably dim. He knew by the smell where he was, so used to waking up in the place with the course of life he tended to take- or rather, the course life took for him. The hospital wing at Hogwarts. Aah, the feel of those mattress springs in his back, the scent of an air freshening spell to cover the stench of sickness. It was like home.

"Oooh, look," he heard Luna say, "He's awake,"

Someone gently placed his glasses on, and he could make out the varying- some-what predictable- expressions of his friends and Head of House.

"Mr. Potter," Professor McGonagall said sternly, "I understand that you may be in a state of recovery, but would you care to explain why you were found in the Forbidden Forest, unconscious, face down in the mud an hour ago?"

"What time is it now?" he asked first.

"Three in the morning, Mr. Potter," was the terse reply.

"Didn't work then," he mumbled, thinking about the portkey Hermione had made, that was supposed to activate at eight o'clock that night, and to the secret passage under Honeydukes.

"Didn't work, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall pressed, looking down her narrow nose at him, and Harry felt his friends tense around him.

"Oh. I was dared, you see," Harry said, thinking up some sort of excuse, any excuse, and at the woman's insistence, he didn't have long, "By a smitten fan. A secret admirer. Said that I was great and all, but hadn't proved I was man until I slept in the dirt of the Forbidden Forest for a whole night and come out not torn to pieces by wild thestrals-" Here, at McGonagall's rising incredulity and wrath, Harry employed his best doe-eyed look- "Dumbledore always taught me that sometimes, you should just do things for fun. And well, with the way things are... I don't get a lot of chances, you know? Taking up the challenge seemed like the youthful thing to do."

He gave her a sheepish smile, while his friends looked at him with eyes bulging. Well, for Luna, that was her usual expression, but the others appeared very unimpressed with him improvisation and very worried.

"Mr. Potter! You are telling me that you worried your friends, as well as the entire staff-" well, Harry couldn't imagine the Carrows were too worried- "for a childish dare!"

He shrugged his shoulders, tried to look the part of the chastised child, though clearly he was out of practice; "I'm sorry, Professor."

"Well," she said with a sharp once over of his bed-ridden self, "at least you're safe. Twenty points from Gryffindor ought to do it,"

Only twenty? Harry was getting away practically untouched! Not that Gryffindor was doing very well on the points front, with the Carrows running about. They probably had somewhere around thirty in total.

She turned on her heel, her boots clacking on the tile floors on her way out. There was a moment of tense silence as they waited to make sure she was gone before Neville spouted off in a jitter.

"Oh my god, Harry! You have no idea how worried we were when you didn't return! And it only happened that a late-night rendezvousing couple stumbled over you and screamed- woke the whole place up except us. We couldn't sleep. Then, one of the first seventh years to get down there levitated you to the infirmary- some guy in Ravenclaw. Had him in Herbology in third year, and used to get mad when I knew something before he did, but I can't seem to remember his name. He's a tall-"

"Enough about the Ravenclaw bloke!" Ron jumped in, "We can send him thank you flowers bloody later. So you were in the infirmary already when McGonagall came to get us, but Madame Pomfrey wouldn't let _anyone_ in as usual. And then," he said in a low voice, "We snuck in while she wasn't looking and Snape burst in. He was _furious_ \- ranting about how he was going to have you expelled, and if he couldn't do that, a whole year's worth of detention. And how you were going to be handed over to Filch in the dungeons-"

"But _then_ ," Hermione cut in, and Harry knew something she found interesting was going to happen, "this inconspicuous little brown owl pecked at the window until Madame Pomfrey let it in, and it swooped over and dropped two letters in Snape's hand. And he opened it, right in the middle of this room, so it _must_ have been urgent. And then his face got all red and angry when he read it! Before it turned to ash. Then he took the second letter..."

Harry didn't sit up in anticipation (he felt too relaxed, too sleepy, too sore), because she'd get to the point eventually.

"And set it right here,"

Harry followed her gaze down his nose, to where a plain envelope rested on his chest. He glanced back up at them quickly before rising to a sitting position and carelessly ripping it open, foregoing any training that told him to check for enchantments or curses. His eyes read the extremely neat cursive.

 _Bring your witness to the House of Gaunt next Sunday morning at three. Surely the Boy Who Lived will have no troubles in getting away_.

"It worked," he said, " _It worked_!"

He threw the letter at his friends

"We're saving the whole bloody world!" he crowed, "We're going to end this war! We're actually doing something- something smart that won't end with a whole ton of people dead! Well, theoretically."

They stared at him in awe, before joining in his festive cheers until Pomfrey kicked them out for being too loud. And who bloody cared that Harry had had to kiss the man, practically _molested_ him more like, to get him to go along with it, when in the end, it _worked_? _The end justifies the means_ , he read once, and hadn't agreed with it then. But now... Now Harry knew what it was like to get a feel of those scales. And he had never known temptation, never known desire in such a concentrated state (W _hat would the Mirror of Erised show now_? He shivered at the idea). And it didn't matter that Harry should feel disgusted with himself, because he had been _successful_ , whether it was the sexual harassment or the threat of committing suicide that did it.

 _Success_.

He knew they wanted to ask him how it had all gone down, how he had convinced the most feared Dark Lord of all time to listen to a _teenage boy_. They did remarkably well, Harry thought- only twitching slightly in anxiety and curiosity, but when Harry had cast his eyes downward in a subdued manner that first time they had asked, in what had actually been slight embarrassment and excitement, they had assumed the opposite side of the emotional spectrum and dubbed it as one of his worst, most terrifying experiences (I mean, how could it _not_ have been? Face to face with Voldemort? They're lucky he could still talk right).

"How many times did he use the Crusiatus?" Ron had asked in undertones in History of Magic, and that earned him a whack to the ear by Hermione's _Hogwarts: A History_ volume (and that was nearly five inches thick, and it wasn't even the biggest out of the series).

When her back turned Harry held up his fingers with a cheeky grin and mouthed ' _four_ ', and it was such _utter_ bullocks, but it was funny to watch his baby blue eyes go as wide as saucers with an out of breath ' _blimey_ '.

But they couldn't focus on what had already happened that first meeting, because they only had seven days to bring together everything they needed to officially make the laws that would go into action when the time was right. Heavy stuff, to say the least. And Harry didn't even know the first thing about politics except that it was a total bore and that it caused more problems than it solved. Their late night ( _every night_ , and for the first time ever, all four of them- even Hermione- used a stash of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to skive off class almost every day for sleep and _more planning_ ) schemes were all jotted down on enchanted parchment that would only appear to the writer and those keyed in by blood (they couldn't have a stray second year accidentally pick it up, were one of them to fall asleep and leave it open on one of the Common Room tables). Mostly, it was just listening to Hermione spout out technical sounding decrees, a terrible ghost of Umbridge, of what she thought would make a good Wizarding world.

"It's important to stay on the polar opposite of Voldemort's ideals-"

"I thought that we wanted compromise," Neville said, confused, and he looked to the other two males and saw they were in the same state of incomprehension. Hermione's shoulders did that little straightening thing when she was getting ready to explain something, as that was definitely what she was aiming to do.

"Exactly. _Compromise_. Not surrender. We have to remember who we're dealing with. Voldemort isn't the type to just take the terms given to him at the beginning of a barter. He'll push us as far as he can and father. So we have to start from somewhere where we'll have a lot of breathing room. It'll make him feel like he's making progress. We also have to think that he'll probably do the same thing. He's a master at getting what he wants- you've told us that much Harry- so who knows what he'll start with. He could spend hours trying to get us to give until we ease a little, when in reality, it was just that little bit he wanted."

 _Oh_.

After that, she had desperately tried to teach the sorely under-educated boys some Wizarding diplomacy (and that mission was _doomed_ to fail) because they could only write half of their chief complaints (or rather, _points,_ because Neville thought _complaints_ was a little negative, even though that's what they technically were or so Harry thought) because the outcome depended on Voldemort's half. The rest of the week flew by (and Harry didn't feel like giving the details of what was honestly the most dreadful, painful week of his entire life, because this story was about him and Voldemort and why they weren't shagging yet- which Harry found to be a major setback and hoped an opportunity would arise in which he could amend this issue. Soon).

And yes, soon, it was go time. Again.

At two thirty in the morning, they woke up and gathered their things that they had readied for the coming morning (Hermione reading through a checklist _fourteen times_ ) and began the painstakingly slow process of sneaking to the Whomping Willow. Too tall and too many to fit under the Invisibility Cloak, Harry and Neville were placed under glamours, their robes transfigured into Ravenclaw colors. The plan, if they were run into, was for Hermione and Ron to flash their Prefect badges and claim to have caught two overly adventurous boys on an adventure, detention slips in hand, and escort them in the direction of Ravenclaw dorms. They only ran into Miss Norris once.

Once outside, in the freezing, below zero temperatures, Hermione insisted on covering their tracks in the snow ("If you're so cold, for Heaven's sake, use a Heating Charm! Honestly, boys, are you wizards or not?" she had hissed at their whinging). From the Shrieking Shack, they apparated to the forest where they had attended the Quidditch World Cup in total privacy to have one last moment to gather their bearings and plot.

Harry and Neville clasped shoulders in that masculine comforting way, because that was how men did it (or so Sirius had told him all those years ago, and Harry really needed to stop reflecting on dead people, because they were dead and were no help to him now, but upon this thought he became rather disturbed with himself and decided it was probably best to stop thinking now, period), as Hermione fussed over her stack of papers and wads of curling scroll parchment, her mouth a stream of mostly nonsense (though for Hermione, most of what she said was nonsense to them half the time anyway)-

"Now remember, as long as you keep your cool-" and this appeared to greatly offend Ron because he had learned to act maturely within the last year- not even hardly reacting to Draco Malfoy's rather playful taunts (the feud between them had long dried out with age, and well, when you've got better things to do than toss petty insults at a guy you realize you know next to nothing about, one did tend to outgrow these things.

Though, if Harry were entirely honest (which he must be because according to the WW's monthly segment _The Truth About Harry_ , he could tell no lies) he was still a bit sore at the pointy faced git because it was still his fault that Dumbledore was drying up like a prune in a marble box. Between the four of them, it was _Harry_ who still had the worst temper.

"As long as we all stay calm," Hermione repeated in a slow voice, "nothing drastic will happen. We're going to be face to face with Voldemo-" she swallowed, and fixed herself, "with the Dark Lord. Face to face with the Dark Lord. And while we may not respect him much-"

"If by respect you mean _downright despise-_ " Ron butted in with a grimace.

"... or even hold an iota of feeling servility for him, he will demand both."

They had already talked about this numerous times and had had this same conversation for many hours actually, had already drawn up all the papers of conditions and complaints and points and " _We won't tolerate_ "s and on and onandonandon for what will most likely be a very heated debate that Harry was awfully worried would end with one of his friends dead (especially Hermione what with her blood status and all. Excepting the turn of events that lead to Harry being his Horcrux, Muggleborns were what Voldemort hated above all else after all. Truthfully, Harry was still unsure about how the Dark Lord felt about the whole Horcrux situation. Harry was still unsure how _he_ felt about it. Except that he was dying to know what had made his skin tingle-hurt like that, and was _possibly only slightly who-was-he-kidding-definitely_ tempted to feel it again. If anyone asked. Which they wouldn't, because even suspect this sort of development? So yeah, the debate).

"All right, Hermione," Ron gently prodded, trying to get her to hurry things up. "It's almost time and Harry needs to concentrate to do long-distance apparition."

Harry somehow recalled that the house Merope had so long suffered in, the House of Gaunt, resided on the outside of Little Hangleton (and qualified as a house about as much as Harry's cupboard qualified as a bedroom) and with Dumbledore's detailed memories (for once those late night excursions had come to _use_ ) it was easy enough to picture. He had not shared with his friends the significance of the house since he had been trying so hard to pretend such places related to Horcruxes did not exist, and _screw_ Dumbledore for leaving him such a ridiculous quest in the first place. Harry had already earned the title of Tragic Hero. Why did everyone want him to keep proving it?

Hermione fell silent finally, and Harry looked his wary but strong friends over. He allowed himself a second to admire them before holding his hands out for them. He had only done side-apparition once, but it was basically the same thing as normal apparition. Neville and Ron's hands were warm, and for a moment, he just stared at the circle they made, the muddy tracks in the icy snow, met Hermione's eyes who stood across from him.

"Right," he said, and turned on the spot.

One second he felt the mild wind of temperate middle east England, and in the next second snow crunch under his shoes, the cold night air biting into his reddened, wind-irritated cheeks.

So here they stood, in the bitter cold, listening to a stream rush underneath a layer of ice, the thin, towering trees rustling and bowing in the knife-like wind. A quick _Tempus_ told Harry it was a quarter to four. Better be punctual.

The Gaunt house was even more decrepit that the last time Harry had seen it (well, not actually _seen_ it, but that was a mere technicality), weighed down and sagging with snow, and he feared the frame of the roof might snap in half were the wind to shake it too much. The house was an honest eyesore to the shimmering pre-dawn winterland it resided in; a black grave to too many in such a seemingly sacred place. He might have wondered why Voldemort would choose such a place- an embarrassment of a past he tried to erase- if he hadn't already known it was some sort of test to see if Dumbledore really had told him all the things he claimed to know. He did not stare long, dropped his hands from his best mates and absently fingered the handle of his wand ("No aggression. No wands unless it's to defend" and Harry wanted to see how long that would last when a Death Eater started throwing Unforgivables). Time was ticking.

He did not feel the need to knock when he reached the door, relaxed, and let himself get a _feel_ before entering. Voldemort was definitely inside (could feel the painful needles in his scar, could feel it almost worsen as he leaned in closer to the chipped, rotted off-one-hinge door, but knew it wouldn't just be pain, could remember- and this was _so_ not the time for that- he was definitely not going to repeat _that_ with his friends in the room, not at all disconcerted anymore that he was willing to repeat a situation like _writhing against Voldemort_ ).

"There is someone in the trees behind us," Neville delivered in a near inaudible voice.

"It's to be expected," Harry murmured, "I'm glad we took the direct route," ( _We don't split up, we don't leave without all of us, we are to be completely straightforward_ ).

Ron gently pushed Hermione in front of himself and Neville in a protective manner, and Harry could feel her standing close behind him, and just knew Ron was fighting the urge to draw his wand. He heard the crinkle of parchment as Hermione's fists clenched, and Harry pushed the door open.

It was very warm and smelled of fresh earth, and all of the rotted furniture and over grown flora had been ripped from the floor and crushed against the walls, the ground a mossy carpet of clay and topsoil mushrooms. Wind whistled through the many holes in the roof.

The Slytherin throne was apparently travel-friendly because Voldemort lounged on it at the center of the room, barefoot as usual, and were it not for the warmth of the room, Harry would have thought it silly in the middle of winter. The burning fireplace was behind him, almost giving him a sinister orange halo, a goblet of wine or something tilted in his white, spidery hand (a white spider that spun dizziness and heavy gauze over Harry's skin). Lucius Malfoy and Snape stood to his right, silent and serious, though Snape looked like he might smell something bad and would rather be anywhere but here, even babysitting Wormtail. He looked very confounded to see Harry. _Surprise. We're here for tea with the Dark Lord_.

"Ah," that silky voice said, with a slow sweep of his empty hand, "Welcome,"

Harry, always stuck as the leader for some reason (which, in his opinion was rather strange because he neither had the disposition nor the desire to be a leader in the first place; curious, very curious...) stepped forward, an easy smile coming to his face, or at least an attempt at one. The men before him may only believe in stoicism from their Pureblood upbringing (a rather untrue and presumptuous statement, as only Lucius was Pureblood here and Harry did not know the first thing about Pureblood upbringing), but Harry found a pleasant attitude and a cleverly-not-overly-friendly smile could do _wonders_ for these tension situations.

"Did you think I wouldn't come, your Lordship?"

He approached the throne and gave a small, mocking bow, which made both Snape and Voldemort hiss angrily (and for some reason, getting to push both of their buttons at the same time was positive _bliss_ ).

"No; the great _Hero_ would never miss an opportunity to grace his shining presence when he is invited. And I see you've brought your extremities with you..."

Voldemort gestured to Harry's friends, saying extremities as though they were removable and useless. Harry gritted his teeth.

"I don't think it's heroism that brought me here," he said, with just enough bite to sound poisonous, and glanced back at his tense companions. "You said bring a witness did you not? The rest are... insurance. Besides, you've got your own _extremities_ sticking their ears against the walls outside, and you don't hear me complaining."

Voldemort gave a pleased sneer (because _smile_ just didn't sound right); "Insurance."

They stared at each other, and Harry felt his skin give a delicious tingle (and hoped Voldemort had felt it as well, but it was impossible to discern anything from that smooth face); "Well, to be perfectly blunt, let's get started."

Harry rotated on his heel and took three slow strides to get back to his friends before turning again to face the three grim adults, felt the entire room's occupant's eyes on him (and terrified at his own boldness, but he could deal with that when he was under another _Cruciatus_ ). With a casual wave in the air of a wrist, he wandlessly conjured a table with chairs for each of them that looked suspiciously like chairs from the towering pile residing in the Room of Requirement, along with a tall stack of parchment with an enchanted quill made of a white peacock feather (much like Rita Skeeter's, only it wouldn't make garbage up as it went along). Lucius' lips only twitched upward slightly at the subtle teasing.

Harry took the seat opposite of Voldemort's throne.

"I believe we all know each other-" had shot curses at each other or family members in the heat of a battle at some point- "but for the sake of formalities, I am Harrison James Potter."

The quill went to work immediately, Snape glaring at it from where he had taken a seat, and Harry motioned to his friends to take their own. They did so stiffly, and Harry dared to put Hermione at the head of the table, as she would be the one to write the official agreements (presumably with Lucius).

"My witness, Hermione Jean Granger. And our assistants Ronald Billius Weasley and Neville Frank Longbottom,"

"Pleasure," Lucius sneered politely, his fine shaped lips pulled up in a near-snarl, showing off his pearly whites. He extended a gloved hand, and Harry took it without hesitation, giving it a brief, delicate shake ( _My, what good manners you have! All the better to eat you with_ ).

Hermione withdrew the large roll of parchment and a small black pen of never-ending ink from her robes, a resounding _thud_ as it hit the rickety wooden table, and Harry felt the impact vibrate into his fingertips.

"Lord Voldemort," the Dark Lord said, and Harry was deeply tempted to whisper 'Tom Marvolo Riddle', but didn't feel like dying tonight, so he kept his smart comments to himself for now. "And witnessing is Lucius Malfoy and Severus Tobias Snape,"

Harry smiled. Ron was stiff as a board, hand clutching his wand in his pocket beneath the table.

"Shall we?"

"I grant you the floor," Voldemort said (as if Harry was asking permission).

"Then we'll start with what we require of you," Hermione jumped in quickly, words even, confident, and Harry loved her for it, though Voldemort and Lucius looked like they were having troubles swallowing a Mudblood _require_ them do anything (it was a big pill, Harry figured).

"We made a list of blanket categories to thoroughly discuss," and Hermione actually physically seemed to phase out of the room, going into her 'time to talk quantum physics and other such intelligent nonsense' mode. "These agreements we come to tonight will be enacted upon Pius Thicknesse and Harry Potter's inauguration in office this coming summer, and only enacted for Britain and its Island Territories. Any boundaries further will require future discussion."

She paused to look each person in the eye for approval, and when Voldemort motioned for her to continue she gave him a short nod.

"The categories are, but not limited to, education, civil rights, finance, and government."

"Government first please," Harry muttered, but Hermione's sharp eyes cut to him, annoyed (she had probably decided the order and outcome of the whole process, and she never did like obstructions when she was trying to accomplish something).

"It's the most boring," Harry explained.

"Education," she said tightly, "Our terms are that Witches and Wizards of all Creature Blood status be allowed to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry if they so wish it: Vampires, Werewolves, Veelas, etc, and that the necessary and proper measures be taken to ensure their safety," (she meant that there be blood supplements and _Wolfsbane_ and whatever else Creature Bloods might need), "That Dark Arts be introduced as a _study only_ class, exclusive to Seventh Years, that sorting be postponed until Third Year, and Minerva McGonagall be promoted to Headmistress."

It was very quiet when she finished, and she did not speak when Lucius cut her down, called her a gullible Mudblood, a good-for-nothing child. Harry nodded calmly to himself as this went on for a while. Time to barter.

"And your terms?" he asked, then added, "My Lord?"

And Snape actually _gasped_. Sucked in a breath in complete shock, just like that, drawing back in his wooden chair so hard it creaked. Voldemort waved a hand in Lucius' direction, apparently too above discussing such plebeian things with such plebeian people. Lucius cleared his throat.

"To disallow the access of Hogwarts to Mudbloods-"

"My quill doesn't pick up slurs," Harry interrupted with an obviously sweet smile.

"To disallow access of _Muggleborns_ ," Lucius spat, "To dissolve the Muggle Studies class, to replace _Defense Against the Dark Arts_ with _Dark Arts Study and Practical Use_ beginning at year _one_ , to place Hogwarts underneath the Dark Lord's direct jurisdiction-" (which basically meant the Dark Lord would be able to do whatever he wanted no matter what they may say, and that was just ridiculous), "And to change the title of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to Slytherin's Institute of the Highly Gifted,"

Ron covered a snort behind his hand.

And on and on it went, until _finally_ , they came to an agreement (sort of): To rename DADA to _Magical Defense_ , add a course dedicated to the Dark Arts required for Fourth Years and up, introduce darker spells into _Charms_ , _Transfiguration_ , and _Ancient Runes_ , an _accurate_ Muggle Studies class taught by someone who actually knew something about Muggle weaponry and science, and so on. It was all very dull after a while.

And by the time they got to torture, they no longer bothered going for the extreme anymore, and just went for efficiency. Only _legal_ torture and interrogation tactics, and no more violent, killing Muggle or Muggleborn raids (which meant that by the time these laws went into action, Voldemort would have the power to change torture laws anyway, and they realized this, but there wasn't much to do about it. And as long as there was no more mass Muggle and Muggleborn Hunting, they could live with that. For now). Civil Rights was a nightmare. It was only through Hermione finally snapping the hell out of Lucius that progress was made:

"Listen, I'm not exactly a fan of ignorant Mudbloods flooding the school either- it's a bother to have to constantly explain things to them because they just can't grasp that _pictures are alive!_ or that _brooms fly!_ Honestly. But they're magical, and are usually quite potent, and even you can't deny that. So we must do something about them! Snatch them from their homes the moment their magic shows, give their families an extra-strength _Obliviate_ , and hand them over to a nice Pureblood family to be raised. It's the only choice we have until we can figure out what causes Muggleborns."

And thank god for that, because Lucius finally stopped making a pinched face every time he had to say Muggleborns and came up with building a Muggleborn settlement where they'd live until they were assimilated into Wizarding society. It was all very Concentration Camp-y.

Harry kind of zoned out after that, because Neville and Ron had joined the discussion, actively arguing with Lucius, and he met Voldemort's thoughtful gaze across the table. The man seemed to be speculating the goings-on, looking some-what pleased, like he himself felt this was a good decision- and that was extremely good as far as Harry could tell.

Harry looked away out at one of the drooping windows of the shack, absently drawing circles in the table, his finger singing the wood, and smiled. He could handle this type of war too. Though, considering he had been mentally shaped for physical warfare since he was fourteen, Harry had trouble imagining how he'd handle this new turn of things. No more killing Death Eaters with a nasty hex he wasn't supposed to know (unless he had a good excuse handy).

Harry caught Voldemort's eye again and winked. The man pretended not to see, but Harry considered it a victory on his part. He slouched in his seat, toed off his trainers and stretched his foot out until it found Voldemort's. The man's eyes snapped to him, and Harry gave him his best poker face. He looked out the window, the picture of bored innocence, and hooked his feet around Voldemort's ankle, socked toes stroking up his calf. The prickle of contact seared him to his marrow, and Harry tried not to drool as he couldn't help staring into Voldemort's intense glare.

"If Mr. Potter is going to be running for office, he will need lessons in proper etiquette," Lucius drawled around eight o'clock in the morning.

Harry startled upon the sound of his name, dropping his feet dejectedly.

Ron jumped forward in his chair, a scowl on his face.

"Yeah? From who? You? You're probably the biggest arse-"

"No, no, Ron. He's right," Harry actually cut him off (and Hermione looked surprised, because she thought it was her that would have to explain why). "I can't just rely on the Dark Lord's word for Pureblood and Dark support. I'll need to learn the customs, the traditions, the dances, the vernacular, hell, which _fork_ to use. I'll need to become one of them to _earn_ their support, and I can't think of anyone better that Mr. Marlfoy. He's practically the center of Pureblood society."

And the rest was easy going after that.

Each party signed in blood and magic, and Harry wrapped his hand in Voldemort's for the Unbreakable Vow, Snape and Ron's wands hovering over them (and the feel of those cool fingers, and that all-powerful stinging, _oh_ ).

They set up an easy routine via owl:

On the weekends, Harry would go to Malfoy Manor (and it wasn't like Snape could very well stop him, seeing as his _Lord_ had practically ordered Harry have free reign which felt so good when he could actually talk back to the greasy bat) and get a lesson on politics and etiquette, which, when told in the smooth tones of Lucius Malfoy, was actually fairly interesting. Narcissa made excellent crème pastries by the way.

"That was quite a donation you made to the reservation of the Forbidden Forest. The _Prophet_ called it nothing short of _angelic_ ," Lucius commented.

Harry flicked his eyes away from the man's feet to his face as they carefully stepped around each other, the ballroom music playing magically from a golden record player that Harry had found at a garage sale in Muggle Surrey (and Lucius had loathed to let it in his house, but Harry had insisted and he was rather difficult to say no to). If someone had told him he'd be receiving dance lessons from a Malfoy a few weeks back…

"The Centaurs have been complaining of humans breaching on the east side because Hogsmeade is speculating the land there. I thought I'd help keep the peace by making the Forbidden Forest _forbidden_ ," he replied easily, gracefully avoiding the other man's polished black loafers in a once-complicated twist in a Fallaway Whisk.

This was their fourteenth lesson, a mixture of Waltzing, and sometimes the Tango if Lucius wanted to humiliate him. They switched who lead, in the event Harry found himself dancing with a man of higher stature (which, to his mild surprise, could actually happen were an ambassador or representative want to dance with the great Boy-Who-Lived, and Pureblood society had no objection to same gendered dancing).

"It's against propriety to speculate at social functions, Potter," Lucius repeated for perhaps the millionth time. Currently, Lucius had a hand on his mid-back, leading him across the bright marble floor of his ballroom (thank Merlin's _balls_ Draco was still at school, because it was embarrassing enough for Narcissa to walk in on these lessons; he never let Hermione, Ron, or Neville join him when he knew they'd be dancing).

"Are you still embarrassed?" Lucius teased with a smile, pulling away and flicking his wand at the record player to end the song, "Your face is getting red. I assure you, you've improved."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to resist lashing out in defense (that wasn't the Pureblood _Way_ ).

"No," he denied rather fruitlessly as Lucius still looked amused.

They made their way back to the foyer to reach the front tea room where the House Elves had left a platter of Black Darjeeling and scones.

"Oh, how your wife spoils me," Harry sighed, snatching a scone and cup.

"The Dark Lord has given his orders to Thicknesse. He will plant the idea of his running within the following week. You will need to move in on publicly supporting him soon, whatever it may entail."

Harry frowned. He still wasn't exactly sure he wanted all this or even had what it would take to get it all done. But he wasn't about to give up (Hermione wouldn't let him); "As long as what I'm supporting publicly can be called honorable and worthy. I won't call an obvious criminal a saint."

"The Dark Lord has ensured that Thicknesse will behave."

Harry let out a condescending 'Hmm' and glanced at the Grandfather clock engraved with "Noble and Most Ancient House of Black", probably a loom from Narcissa.

They would sometimes get off track, talk about life at home (how Lucius sometimes regretted being so cold to Draco, and how Harry didn't really have a home to begin with- not in the emotional sense), or work because Harry had to start a public campaign long before the election, and Lucius was never getting a break at the Ministry. He found himself liking the man and his extravagant home.

But once it rolled around eight o'clock in the evening, Harry would abandon everything and anything because that was when Voldemort got back from doing whatever it was that Lords did throughout the day, and Harry didn't really feel bothered to ask, even though Hermione would probably scold him if she knew.

"Tomorrow, then?" he said as he rose to the gongs of the hour. Lucius gave a single, polite nod, and Harry dipped in a proper bow. That training couldn't go to waste now, could it? He grinned to himself as he wound through the stairs and halls and portraits of scowling Malfoys.

Harry threw himself through the door of Lucius' private study, where the Dark Lord currently did his paperwork in the evenings, shot a big grin towards the man and flopped carelessly down in the comfy chair next to the desk. They were quiet, like usual when he first started pestering him (because Harry had gotten to the point where he was brave enough, stupid enough to taunt the Dark Lord, tease him, _flirt_ with him).

He studied the serpentine face, marble smooth, slits for eyes and nostrils. He didn't know what made him think Voldemort was beautiful, and gorgeous- and totally shaggable. Most of the time, he was an overbearing psycho (to put it lightly), but he was _his_ overbearing psycho. And most of the psycho had shifted from torturing Muggles to destroying the playing field at politics (Harry called it _constructive venting_ ). And he was just so good at everything he did (except for being genuinely remorseful or generally nice, but he was working on that, or so Harry told himself).

Like snogging. Especially snogging. Because Harry couldn't possibly wish to snog someone so terribly much and that someone end up bad at it. It just didn't work that way.

"Child, if you do not stop twitching, I will body-bind you." (and Harry was a healthy teenage boy, so he couldn't _help_ that his mind went to the gutter).

"If you'd stop doing that boring paperwork and pay attention to me, I might stop twitching," he retaliated, though the chances of him sitting still with Voldemort paying attention to him was highly unlikely, if not downright impossible.

"This _boring paperwork_ , as you deem to call it, is what will give me the entire-"

"Wizarding Britain; yeah, yeah, so I've heard,"

Those scarlet eyes snapped up to his, and Harry felt an obligatory reflex _gulp_ hit his throat (a good gulp though, because Voldemort acknowledging him meant he could climb up onto the desk and distract him until two in the morning with witty commentary and hopefully something physical). Harry slithered off of the loveseat and over to Lucius' desk, and those embers followed him, calculative, fixated. Slowly, he slid along the edge in front of him like he had done the first time all those weeks ago in Lucius' dining room/Death Eater meeting room (but only on the weekends was it the latter, because he'd come to learn that Narcissa kept the entire house on a strict schedule). He, quite literally, set himself in the middle of Voldemort's work (and never mind the ink stains on his robes when this would all be over).

"Potter," he hissed, and Harry shivered, gave him a charming half-smile he'd seen himself do on the front of _Witch's Weekly_.

"Harry," he corrected the Dark Lord, drumming his fingers on the man's forearm.

Voldemort did not looked pleased, but whatever opposition he was going to bring up next was cut off as Harry had pushed the black sleeve up and pressed his naked palm against the sinfully smooth wrist. It was his turn to hiss, though for completely different reasons, his body tensing so that he bent over precariously far, but just when he thought he might tip over, his forehead found the crook of Voldemort's neck, and _purred_ as his lips came in contact with the spiky, tingly pleasure-pain. It wasn't the first time Harry had practically assaulted the man during these weird times mono a mono (and as long as Harry held the reigns, wouldn't be the last).

"Why," Harry whispered, breath hot against those _wonderful_ scales, wanting _more_ , wondering where _else_ those scales might appear, "does this happen?"

There was a moment of stillness, before the being, the _creature_ before him moved, became movement itself, and Harry found himself sprawled on his back on the desk (and thank god Lucius was organized, the desk mostly bare, and thank _god_ Lucius loved expensive over-kill, because his desk was _huge_ ), that ivory face twisted in something dark and sinister and delicious.

"It could be a number of things," Voldemort said in a low voice, his hands gliding experimentally up Harry's bare, quivering sides ( _and where had his robes gone?_ ), and he tried for once to not just crumble, to try at control, and some of the black dots swimming in his vision disappeared, and he moaned pitifully at the effort it took. "Our incompatible magical cores-" but that couldn't possibly be it, because there's no way his body would want to melt into one with the man above him if his magic didn't, Harry was sure as Voldemort's teeth joined the mix, nipping his earlobe and Harry had _no idea he was so sensitive there, but let's find more places_ \- "The remaining protective blood magic on you that has dulled over the years; perhaps even my soul trying to rip it's way from your body from feeling me near,"

But ' _near_ ' wasn't enough; 'near' wasn't _nearly_ near nearness enough in Harry's opinion, yanked at the man's robes as if to communicate this thought. Through his wanton gasping, he earned a growl that reverberated through his very _bones_ , around the frighteningly quiet office, vibrated him to the core, and sent him arching for more contact, more kisses (always more), and, _aah,_ his vision blacked out for a second because Voldemort's hands had somehow found their way to the back of his upper thighs and were, ohdearlord _yes_ , _pressing their groins together_ in glorious heat and weight. Harry sobbed with the feeling of his bare flesh against those fine robes, just knowing he was staining them with fluids he should be too embarrassed to think of, but too drunk on that thrumming _power_ to care for anything else. Though it could be better, so much better, if only more of their skin were touching, bare skin of stomach on stomach, thighs on thighs, and _down there_ all naked and flushed with blood and- Voldemort could _definitely_ understand what he was thinking (probably had a clear image in high-def broadcasting through their strange link) because his scarlet eyes raged in irrepressible lust that made Harry feel totally ravished (or totally hoping he would be within the next few gasps for breath). And he didn't think his body could _handle_ any more, Voldemort's teeth biting down on his collar bone, but he _needed_ it.

"Get naked," he growled viciously, digging his nails into the black cloth and ripping at it with a surge of wandless magic until the top half evaporated into ash and steam. "Now."

Voldemort's torso was exposed to him, and Harry devoured the new skin with his eyes until his fingertips couldn't wait any longer, and he dragged them down that surprisingly hard chest, and _yes_ , there were more white, glimmering scales, and he loved it, loved everything about the man before him- at least in that one moment when there was no war or worries.

The Dark Lord had stilled to watch Harry watch him (touch him), almost thoughtful in the way that Harry couldn't seem to calm down, groaning low in the back of his throat every time they touched, and Voldemort himself could obviously feel the magic rushing through them (and through the mist, Harry thought that might be it: that their magic was just the opposite of incompatible, was actually so compatible that the magic was literally flowing from one vessel to the other and back again, not Harry and Voldemort, not his magic and his magic, but an endless cycle of no ends, no points of separation). And then Voldemort's hands traveled to his own waist where his torn, disintegrated robes rested, and tore them off as if they were made of paper, and Harry's breath caught.

He took in the whole visage, knees to forehead, was too chicken to say _beautiful_ out loud, but knew Voldemort knew he was thinking it because he sneered at him, probably mocking him for the sentimentality or whatever.

"You are my Horcrux."

The words surprised him, because they seemed so random, but Harry didn't care because Voldemort was kissing him now, kissing the noise out of him. He felt too numbed by all the powerful things rushing through him, he couldn't moan for a second (although when he could, he did. Loudly. He'd always been a very vocal person whilst masturbating).

"Yes," Harry replied against the stone, almost cold lipless mouth, his eyes wide with excitement, staring into Voldemort's, and he couldn't understand the darkening of those scarlet stingers. "I am."

And the Dark Lord smirked, pressed the length of his scales against Harry, and dipped his hand low to Harry's throbbing groin, and his vision really did go black for longer than a second as that skeletal, wonderfully cruel hand squeezed and stroked with a slowness that told of all the time in the world, because he was Lord-bloody-Voldemort, and he could control time if he ever needed to probably.

" _Oh- fuck_ ," Harry whined, then in Parseltongue, " _Fuckfuckfuck_ ,"

And Voldemort, for once with a sense of humor (and out of nowhere, too), chuckled; " _I thought you would be interested in foreplay_ ,"

Harry's emerald eyes rolled back to disappear in his heavily lidded skull as, _fuck_ the foreplay, the Dark Lord's hand glided tightly back to the base of Harry's straining erection.

" _No_ ," he said, and thank Merlin for Parseltongue because it was so much easier to hiss when one was on the verge of passing out in blinding explosions of the colorful dots in front of his corneas. " _No, save it for later_."

And they would (or at least Harry hoped because the idea of foreplay with Lord Voldemort was making him salivate), but that wasn't important right now, because Voldemort was hissing out a chuckle, his snake-like, _god-like_ body caging Harry's against the cold surface of the desk. His long fingers trailed down Harry's stomach and trembling pelvis quickly, the time for teasing past.

He'd only had sex once (with Ron and Hermione- and _hey_ , being stuck in the middle of a war for a few years was stressful. If they hadn't done that that one summer night in No. Twelve Grimmauld Place- and only once, they didn't like each other _that_ much; at least Harry didn't- he was pretty sure they would have snapped and killed each other).

But this was different, because Voldemort wasn't a fumbling teenager, or his almost family. So yes, his experience was lacking, but Harry wasn't bashful, so he spread 'em, hooked his ankles at the Dark Lord's spine, and moaned when their bare erections rubbed.

Had Harry ever said that Voldemort's fingers were long? Slim, slender- and three of them _pushing inside him_ with some sort of lubricating charm, and _Merlin_ , that hurt, that stinging fire of their skin on skin was _inside him_ , and it was glorious and he pushed his hips up, demanding more, because, _hello_ , they didn't have all night, and he wasn't about to wait much longer.

Voldemort's eyes weren't on Harry anymore, and the boy could see through his tightly closed, watering eyes through their connection a murky video playing and cutting out from a bad connection and playing again- of those white digits sinking in and out, and-

" _Gods_ , if you don't hurry it the hell up, I will call Lucius in here to fuck me for you!"

In retrospect, it was probably a bad thing to say.

Voldemort's free hand snapped from the desk to Harry's throat so fast, he didn't even have time to inhale before he was being suffocated, all of the man's weight going into that one hand, but the pace of his other sped up, and Harry let out a choked gurgle of appreciation and ecstasy, the blood rushing in his ears and the pressure in his temples with the searing burn of his scar only amplifying the sharp knives going into his prostate.

"I am not above killing my own Death Eaters, _Harry_ ," the Dark Lord purred right in his ear, the force of his hand around Harry's neck lessening.

Harry took a deep breath only to release it a second later in a deep, long-drawn moan at the twisting and bending and probing of those fingers inside him. The sound broke something in the both of them, and Voldemort's fingers vanished, leaving his inner walls exposed and cold. Harry mewled impatiently, but became deathly quiet, holding his breath as cold, large hands clawed into his hips, the blunt head of Voldemort's length hot and burning to his minimally stretched entrance.

And then, the man practically lunged his hips forward, and Harry only had a millisecond to relax and braced himself because Voldemort definitely wasn't giving him a grace period to adjust as he withdrew and thrust, and it was all so _brutal_.

Harry let out a loud keening noise, was too lost in all the lava tearing through his veins to try to thrust his hips up in sync to the Dark Lord's. His shouts and sobs buzzed through his clenched teeth around the circular office (and if everyone and their _mum_ didn't hear them), Voldemort being sure to rip a path through him ( _He has to be trying to kill me- all this time and all it took to knock me off was to_ get _me off_ ). Harry dug his nails into the paradoxically soft-hard scales on his shoulder blades, listened to the sound of their coupling bang against and shake the desk, watched those white shoulder, stomach, neck muscles roll under paper skin, and where before, Harry thought he had known beauty- in the arm's length with the clouds on his _Firebolt_ , looking into the eyes of his friends, Thestrals- he was proven wrong and wrong and wrong again, because none of it could amount to _this_.

He couldn't relax his hands enough to let go of the skin he had under his nails, feeling his inner walls clench around the pulsing cock ( _Voldemort's_ cock; Voldemort's _cock_ ) and himself draw close to _almost there_ , so he raked one hand down Voldemort's coiling, undulating spine, heard an almost inaudible groan in the crook of his neck. He squeezed his anal walls experimentally, felt an intense burn that had his eyes rolling and his back arching, and this time, the Dark Lord really did groan, and the sound coaxed Harry to sink his teeth into Voldemort's shoulder.

" _There!_ " he gasped, voice hoarse in time with the snap of Voldemort's hips, and he hit that _spot_ again and _again_.

Harry dropped one of his hands to find his throbbing, needy erection and gripped it hard, and at the same time, Voldemort jerked him up to a sitting position by the waist, until he was falling up and down on a rigid shaft. It was all Harry could do to keep from crying, boneless to his maneuvering, head hanging uselessly against a jutting collarbone, one hand jerking himself off, and another trembling at the base of Voldemort's neck.

His body strung tight, like a bow, and it obviously had an effect on Voldemort because his breathing hitched, practically gasping, his usually white face a little pink in the mouth and high cheekbones. Only _one, two_ more thrusts and Harry's vision cut out, only the loud beat of Voldemort's body ramming against and in his own left as he came, spine bending in a rather impressive arch. He threw his head back like in all the cliches, eyelids fluttering, mouth pulled into a tense line. He refused to call Voldemort's name out loud.

The man he heaved against pushed up into him a few more times before his sharp, clean nails pierced Harry's hip and ribs, sharp canines digging into a flushed chest, and _ohCirce_ , Harry could feel the boiling, thick cum filling him up in the most satisfyingly dirty way.

They stilled, panting for the same air, and of course there just didn't seem to be enough. Harry's sweaty forehead rested against Voldemort's, and he felt the pain of the scratch marks and bites and bruises and smiled because he was covered in his own semen and blood, sitting in Lord Voldemort's lap like he wasn't the most deadly man on the face of the planet.

He wanted to say something witty, but no words came. So they sat, leaned against one another until their skin had long dried, and Lucius had gone to bed, given up trying to get into his office.

When Harry _floo_ 'd back to Snape's office- at nearly one in the morning-, he was met with a very black, very angry stare.

"I don't know what you're up to, _boy_ ," and the title made him think of a purple-faced Vernon he hadn't seen in a blessedly long time (since Dumbledore died, because he had made it quite clear that he would not live with the Dursleys after that, and had mowed down any Order member who tried to force him), and Harry took a much needed step backwards from that hook-nosed, looming face of Snape's. "Or what _games_ you're playing- but when I find out, you will be _in a world of trouble_."

He seriously doubted it. For one, Snape already _knew_ about what he and his friends have been up to, it wasn't like he could do much, and two, Harry had reason to believe Voldemort himself had told Snape not to punish Harry, going by how he had reacted after reading the letter when Harry had been knocked out in a thin mattressed hospital bed.

"Games, sir?" he replied with an easy smile, almost enjoying fighting the urge to be provoked (though he still very much would like to kick Snape right in his Slytherin balls). "I have no idea what you mean."

He made a run for it- or a brisk walk, because Gryffindors never _run_ from battle- out of the man's office (and it still just didn't look right with all of Dumbledore's things gone- most of all, the man himself).

"Detention!" Snape howled after him.

Harry sighed. He had made such a frequent appearance in the Carrows' detention hall that he had become somewhat of a favorite of theirs- to torment and humiliate, soil his parents' names, the standard stuff. So Harry made a defense mechanism, or rather a habit of going off in Lala-Land to avoid blowing up in accidental magic that would send the two Professors up into the sky in the shape of balloons, like Aunt Marge.

He often thought of well- and Harry couldn't help but blush- you-know-who (no really, You Know Who) during those nights in detentions, with the badly bloodied Seamus Finnigan and Collin Creevey sitting across from him (they were pegged as Carrow Favorites as well, and many midnights were spent doctoring wounds with salves filched from Slughorn's personal stock, telling Collin and his little brother Dennis to keep looking up- that better things were just on the horizon).

After sending the little tykes to bed (Harry said little, but Collin had shot up taller than him within the last two years), they huddled by the fire to bask in their accomplishments.

Ron and Hermione blushed and flirted and all that gross stuff while Neville prodded at some sort of wriggling vine in a vase, taking notes on it, and Harry. Well, Harry did what he usually did when he was left with his own thoughts. He fantasized about Voldemort. He couldn't help it. The man was just so brilliant, so talented, _so amazing in bed._

"I think I'm in love," Harry sighed out breathlessly, unable to contain it, a dopey smile on his face.

Ron choked on nothing- the reaction he has to anything shocking- on his place from the Common Room couch next to Neville. Hermione looked up from her SPEW knitting, eyebrows raised.

"It isn't Luna, is it?" Neville asked, a little panicked, "I've been crazy about her all year- just been too scared to-"

"No, no," Harry said quickly, "Luna... she er. Isn't my type,"

It was a touchy subject because of the whole Looney Lovegood thing, and Harry could see on their faces what they thought he meant by it- she was too weird or crazy or something, and he could hear Luna say if she were here ' _Oh no, I'm too female for Harry_ '. He smiled.

"He's nothing like her," he dropped, hoping someone would get it, and of course it was Hermione.

" _He_?" she asked while blinking, then hmm'd and went back to knitting, "Well, that's not surprising, I think."

"You're... you're _gay_?" Ron asked, the tip of his ears bright red, "It... It isn't _me_ , right? I mean, I love you and all- you're my best mate, and I know there was that one summer where we, _uh_. _Oh_. But it wasn't-"

"No Ron, it isn't you," Harry said with a snort. "Just know that if I tell you your arse looks fantastic in that Quiddich uniform that I'm telling you from an objective standpoint,"

His friend spluttered before joining the loud laughter of the other three.

He deeply regretted letting it slip that he was after someone, because now Hermione _refused_ to let it drop ("Oh, who is it? Is it Malfoy? Neville? Is it that Zabini boy? Someone older? Younger? Is he in Gryffindor?"), shadowing his every move, excepting his time at Malfoy Manor ("Oh, my- Is it _Mr._ Malfoy?") so he just began giving her half truths:

"He's a Slytherin," he dropped, "I saw him- well, _all_ of him- for the first time in Second year,"

In the Chamber of Secrets as a murderous piece of soul (the present Tom Riddle hadn't changed much, obviously), of course.

"Yes, he's extremely smart; can you let this go now?"

"Not until I know he's good enough for you!"

"Just leave her be," Ron said sympathetically, patting him on the shoulder, as they sat down for dinner in the Drat Hall. "You know how she gets about mysteries… But now that she's brought it up, it isn't Draco Malfoy, right? I don't think I could take seeing his face at every family gathering if you got married."

Harry rolled his eyes with a half irritated smile. He was about to make a grab for some nice pumpkin juice when Hedwig swooped in low, dropping a small folded note onto Harry's bare plate, not stopping for food or an affectionate nip to Harry's ear (she was in a right mood because Voldemort was pretty mean to her, not giving her treats or allowing her inside the window).

_Malfoy Manor 8pm_

"Someone's bossy," he muttered, taking the note and wandlessly setting it aflame, "Do you guys have any homework? Want to take a trip to Lucius'? If I bring you all, Narcissa will want to fix dinner,"

And Narcissa's dinner was just as fabulous as her pastries.

"Sure," Neville replied easily, and Ron nodded his assent. Hermione didn't look up from her Ancient Runes text, but Harry figured it was as good an affirmative as any other.

They left for the Malfoy's early because they didn't see a point in waiting around, as the house elves began hovering Christmas decorations up in Snape's office.

"Make sure you put up enchanted mistletoe," Ron told them, "Maybe Snape will end up having to kiss Professor Carrow or something. Can you imagine how disgusting that would be?"

They stepped into the fireplace, Hermione's exasperated "Oh, Ron," lost in the burst of flames.

Harry left his friends with Narcissa to go search out the Dark Lord, and found him, surprisingly, not behind Lucius' desk, but in a cozy little tea room of dimly lit burners and sleepy looking Malfoy ancestor portraits. He was sitting with his back against a cushioned window seat, the window cracked to let in the December air and ventilate the stuffy warmth. His eyes were closed, though Harry was positive the man would never sleep so openly, so vulnerable.

"Is this where you use candle light and throw pillows to seduce me into being your consort?" he teased, leaned against the door frame, watching a red eye crack open to survey him.

Harry slid off the frame, slunk his way over to the curled form of Voldemort.

"My consort..." he hissed, before shooting the thought down. "You have no chance of being my equal, child."

Harry rolled his eyes, only a bit insulted on principle, before crawling over the Dark wizard to straddle him, his hands rubbing up and down the clothed chest in a massaging way, reaching around to knead the back of his scaly neck.

"You're too into the whole dominant-submissive thing, I know," Harry said, leaning forward, so that the side of his face rested on Voldemort's breast, and he fingered the folds of his black robes. " _My Lord_."

Bone white fingers stroked Harry's jaw before pulling at his chin so that they were looking at each other eye-to-eye. Harry felt an uncomfortable pressing sensation on his thoughts, but allowed the small intrusion without fighting, curious as to what Voldemort was looking for in there.

"Sometimes I wonder why it is that I allow this," the Dark Lord admitted, and Harry grinned haughtily, kissing him soundly on his nonexistent lips.

"Because I'm freaking Harry Potter, and _everybody_ wants Harry Potter."

He did not look amused.

"Harry?" he heard from somewhere in the house. "Dinner's almost ready! Narcissa would like to know..."

The rest of the sentence was lost in the largeness of the mansion, and Harry chose not to acknowledge the call, instead cupping both of Voldemort's fine boned cheekbones; "Your eyes are like the Killing Curse; like mine."

Voldemort did not question this and instead pulled Harry into another lip-lock. The echo of hurried footsteps came from down the hall, but Harry again ignored the outside world in favor of stroking those smooth as glass scales with the sensitive pads of his fingers, mostly used to the sparking, burning of skin contact between them; "And your _scales_."

Harry nuzzled his cheek, rubbed it against Voldemort's nose and lips (not at all afraid to express his feelings, because they did nothing for Voldemort, and Voldemort _cared_ nothing for what _did_ nothing). "I _love_ them. You don't know how many hours I spend fantasizing about them instead of doing my lessons."

"Don't blame your substandard intelligence on _me_."

"Arse," he muttered under his breath, fully lying his weight against the man beneath him and closing his eyes contentedly.

The door blasted open.

"Harry! You didn't answer! You haven't gotten yourself killed, have- _Oh_ ,"

Harry glanced over at the doorway, where his friends stood (because they're so good, getting all worried about him being alone with the big bad Dark Lord, and not answering their cries, and coming to check in on them, but bloody hell, was it inconvenient. Maybe he _shouldn't_ have invited them). Ron and Neville were white as Nearly Headless Nick, mouths and wands limp. Hermione stood at the front of them, not looking frightened or confused or worried, but _intrigued_.

"Of _course_ ," she muttered. "I should have _known_."

Harry closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose (because no matter how he looked at this, it was just _embarrassing_ ).

" _Harry_!" Ron shouted, a shaking finger pointed at the couple entwined at the window, "Tha-that's the _Dark Lord_ you're- you're..."

Harry raised his eyebrows, looked from Voldemort to Ron.

"You're misunderstanding, Ron," he said. "The Dark Lord and I are not in any kind of intimate relationship."

" _I-i-i-nti-mate_ ," Ron stuttered, mouth floundering about.

Harry nodded.

"Yeah. You see, it's all for show," and now, Harry felt like laughing. "To make it look like we're really close-" ( _really_ close), "for our debut this summer. Why don't you go back down stairs and Hermione can give you a nice, warm _Obliviate_?"

Ron nodded dumbly, totally out of it, like that time the brains in the Department of Mysteries had wrapped around him; "Yeah, I'll do that."

Hermione (and bless her, really) rolled her eyes and herded the two boys out of the room and shut the door (and not before shooting Harry a look that plainly said they'd talk about this later ' _whether-you-like-it-or-not-Harry-Potter_ '), and the deafening silence that followed almost made it hard to look back at Voldemort. The Dark Lord was smirking, which was surprising because Harry figured it would anger or annoy him for other people to get a hint of what went on behind closed doors (that should probably be locked from now on).

"All for show, hmm?"

Harry laughed and kissed him.


	4. Chapter 4

"I thought I knew what it felt to hate."

Oh Lord, not another philosophical spiel on why Voldemort was the greatest man alive. Harry had found the man was full of them, an angry speech prepared for every slight, from a politician's cutting insult to the strawberry jam expiring before he got to use it all. Really, Harry appreciated Voldemort's rants when they were put to good use. Dirty talk, for example. Or when it flexed the Dark Lord's mental muscles in all the sexiest ways- Harry loved it when he was reminded of how much of a dark genius Voldemort was. But most of the time, and especially when, it all began with how much Voldemort hated something- they were all in for a bad time.

Harry looked up in the mirror, having been straightening his collar and wild fringe, and caught the Dark Lord completing the last bit of his work, pressing the Ministry of Magic wax seal on the folded parchment for a polished finish before his crimson gaze flickered to the reflecting surface. Harry shot a glance to where Ron was standing in the doorway to his large Undersecretary office (My office, he thought to himself, and I'll never get used to it, no matter how many gray hairs crop up from the stress of it). They were already over thirty minutes late to Lestrange's summer Gala, delayed because "No, Potter, this bill cannot wait- and if you don't read over it and sign it, I will do it for you."

Voldemort was such a controlling man when they were about to go socialize.

"Please, tell me what you hate," Harry finally replied absently, pivoting on his heel and making way towards Ron who was holding out his heavier outer cloak for him- Lucius insisted that even if it was in the middle of a boiling summer, the respectable Wizard always wore his formal outer cloak in public, and through various humiliating debacles, Harry had learned that what Lucius said about social moores was best left silently obeyed.

"Quite. My father. That wretched orphanage. Dumbledore. But you, Harry Potter," the Dark Lord paused as he too stood (out of Harry's chair, from behind Harry's desk- Merlin, he was so invasive). "I did not know what it was to hate until I met you."

Harry wished he could have pretended to blush but closed his eyes instead so he wouldn't be caught rolling them.

"Oh, darling, do you really mean it?" Harry cooed in a sweet voice. "I hate you too. So, _so_ much. Forever."

Voldemort just continued to glare off into space- so moody- and took Harry's arm so he could be lead to the fireplace to Floo.

"Now stop moping; you've got Death Eaters to put in place, and I've got that politician from Communications to woo. Ron lock the do- oh thanks, mate. Watch your head once you get to Lestrage's; their hearth is a lot shorter. And anyway," Harry rambled on, smoothing out the wrinkles in Voldemort's sleeve, "I really don't want to see Narcissa if she catches us late again. Do you know what she did to me last time? Cursed me cross-eyed, that's what-"

"Lestrange Foyer," the Dark Lord snapped and a bursting of green flames cut Harry off.

Voldemort immediately left Harry's side once they emerged in the midnight black foyer- black marble, black hard wood, black banisters. Bloody morbid was what it was. He'd only ever had to endure one business visit to this lovely establishment so far, and he would have preferred to have kept it that way.

Augh, it reeked of Lestranges, and Bellatrix was bound to be skulking around somewhere, waiting for the moment Harry turned his back so she could torture him until his intestines fell out his back, the vindictive demon that she was. She probably spent her free time strategically plotting up different ways to melt his brain out his eye sockets without picking up her wand. (Her personality alone succeeded in this pretty well already.) And maybe Harry was being a bit paranoid, but the price on his head was getting fairly hefty in the black market and one must always be prepared.

There was a warm roar behind Harry that made him jump away from the hearth for fear of catching fire as Ron came through, dusting his shoulders free of power.

"I'll never understand it," he said buffing the buttons on his robe so they'd regain their shine.

"What, Britain Underground?" Harry asked, still caught up in the bounty for his dead body, then, thinking about that delegate who had quite the load invested in a Gringotts vault and what it could pay for (another secretary for him, part of him thought, because it should be a crime to have the amount of paperwork he had sitting at home) that he had tried to explain to Ron earlier and failed because he was never very good at explaining much- "Or Bulgarian politics?"

"No- neither, I mean... You. You and... him," Ron made a face that reminded Harry of when the poor boy had pulled his wand out of that ogre's nostril all those years ago.

Harry sighed, bumping a gentle fist into Ron's shoulder to try to appear casual and buddy-like. He didn't think he quite hit the mark when his friend raised his eyebrows in a condescending way.

"Listen, Ron. It isn't something that can be explained. Well, actually, it probably can be, but, one- I'm the wrong person for it, and two, I won't try because I am trying to spare you the migraine."

They made their way closer to the front where the foyer split into the dining room and the ball room. Music and conversation filtered around them in comfortable waves. Sure, they were in Rodolphus and Rabastan's house, and sure, Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom had been tortured on the very carpet and floor boards they walked, but as Harry had learned from his European travels, all balls were the same no matter the location.

"He hasn't got a face, Harry."

"What?" Harry balked at his friend. "Of course he's got a face. There's a big difference between not having a nose and not having a face. No nose-" Harry gestured to Voldemort's general vicinity in the ball with a lofty hand, "No face was Dolohov once Bill got done fucking him up in that last Death Eater v. Order brawl."

Harry couldn't keep from letting out a snicker, a little sad that Ron wouldn't get his high brow joke- paralleling Wizard bloodshed with Muggle court systems. He thought it sounded better than The Second Great War.

"That's another thing- you refer to all of this so lightly: the war, the gore, the deaths. Hermione really thinks you've gone mental. Have you stopped seeing your shrink?"

Harry wisely decided not to answer.

His redheaded friend did his best to imitate Hermione's scrutinizing look, but he only succeeded in looking confused. They came upon the ball, now in full swing, and easily stepped and weaved around dancers, each having much practice in these parties to be well adept at Wizard dodgeball. Both Ron and Harry had been smacked in the face by illustrious curls or the occasional elbow to learn quickly. The dance floor was a battlefield all on its own.

He was lucky Ron still didn't think Hermione would be safe coming to these galas- as the only Muggle Born in a sea of mostly Purebloods, it wasn't exactly her scene; sure, she was plenty strong enough to handle anything these days, but she tended to go easy on Ron when his masculinity was in question. It made him feel good when he thought he was protecting her. And Harry never liked for her to see the more ruthless side of himself when he was working anyway (the side that had all of the little ministry sheep walking circles for him or the side that took over when he snuck off to have a snog with Voldemort before dessert).

"And it's not like the nose is one of the major facial features for making expressions. Just jook at him-" Again, Harry made a general gesture to where Voldemort was listening to Bellatrix Lestrange crow about something or another (probably some innocent child she'd eaten the head off of or something). "He's having no trouble at all looking completely bored out of his mind. And you know that saying about men with large noses? You should hear the one I've got about men with no noses at all."

Ron suddenly looked rather green when Harry proceeded to wink at him.

"I thought you weren't going to try to explain," he muttered with a grimace.

They circled the perimeter of the ball chamber in reflective silence, thoughts erotic in nature, though the feelings attached quite different for each of them.

"Aah- there's Mr. Krastev bravely enduring Thicknesse. Want to watch me work?"

Ron was quite relieved that his friend's attention was pulled elsewhere- a thick looking man with a severely thin nose and heavy brows staring over the ever-snob faced Thicknesse's shoulder at the window opposite. Obviously whatever the Minister was saying wasn't very captivating.

"I'd rather not."

Harry couldn't blame him; "Very well. I'll see you later Ron. Don't forget to try to convince Abbot to donate to the Ministry's research project and get her vote. Luna should get here any minute with one of the Greengrass sisters, so you won't have to bear being the awkward guy for very long."

"That's so thoughtful of you, mate," Ron rolled his eyes, watching Harry grimace over his shoulder as he made his way over to the pair, but his friend didn't pity him a bit. It's what he got for thrusting information about Voldemort's cock in his direction when he hadn't wanted it.

Harry huffed inaudibly; business on the weekends should be outlawed.

"Minister," he greeted with a bow of his head as he approached Thicknesse. It was all pretense though- they knew who called the shots out of the two of them, who put the hours in.

"Potter," he replied out of sheer obligation- he wasn't well liked, and Thicknesse wasn't above making it obvious. Harry gave him a purposefully polite smile before turning his attention to Krastev.

"Ah, you must be our special guest from Bulgaria. I am-"

"Harry Potter, yes, Britain's esteemed Under Secretary," the man interrupted with a thick accent, extending his strong hand for a swift shake. "Even where I am from, you are not unheard of,"

Harry allowed his grip to linger on the politician's knuckles a second.

"And here I thought I'd finally be able to introduce myself," he mock-lamented with a winning smile. "Tell me, has my country been pleasing to you?"

Thicknesse looked scandalized; "Your country, Mr. Potter?"

"Semantics, Thicknesse; it's all semantics- I meant nothing by it," Harry's smile didn't slip as his gaze remained level on Krastev.

"This is not my first time in the United Kingdom, but it is my first social event here in many years. I admit, it has not disappointed me yet," the man graciously flattered in a deep voice that reminded Harry of the young Victor Krum. Foreigners, such a charming lot.

"I am relieved to hear it."

Another round of instrumental music rolled into existence, coming from the overhanging balcony at the front of the ball room where a just visible conductor was waving his wand in graceful arcs. It was almost as compelling as a duel.

"Perhaps we should take our conversation to a more quiet room?"

"Speculation before dinner? Are all of the delegates from Bulgaria so… rough?" Harry asked breathlessly.

Thicknesse gagged.

Krastev grinned. "Oh, yes, Mr. Potter. Shall we?"

Harry rested a friendly hand on Krastev's extended arm, led him away from both the dance floor and an indignant Minister. The poor man couldn't even squeeze a parting word in edgeways. They made their way past the Dining Hall and into a side room where sun would usually be glowing it a warm orange, but night had long since settled, so the House Elves had already lit the oil lamps, casting a golden glow of a different sort.

"How long will you be in the country, Mr. Krastev?" Harry asked as he took a seat on a short love couch, trying to look as regal and approachable as possible.

The man closed the door behind them, the noise of the party sealed away mid-song, their solitude decided.

"Please, call me Bojidar. And I will stay until my estate here in Britain is refurbished. I plan to make suitable living arrangements for my little sister, who has decided to come to your Wizarding school here when she is of age for attendance."

Krastev stalked like a tiger, sliding into the couch beside Harry.

"I have recently inherited a large sum from my late aunt, as I'm sure you're aware. I would be willing to pay quite a bit to ensure her comfort and safety, Mr. Potter."

Harry didn't have it in him anymore to blush. Instead he armed himself with his infallible boyish smile. "I am aware. And please, just Harry is fine. We are willing to provide what you need to feel confident your dear sister is protected, Bojidar. But I'm not after your money."

The man raised his eyebrows in mild disbelief, apparently thinking about his position now that Harry had given him a twist.

This was going so smoothly- so cleanly. If all the man wanted was some extra warding around his estate, hell, Harry could arrange that himself in a matter of hours. And as far as Hogwarts- how much safer could you get? True, Harry could attest to the contrary, what with all the breaches in security over the seven years he was at Hogwarts, but that was when Voldemort was trying to break in. And the Dark Lord wouldn't be doing that anymore because he practically owned the place now. Harry's personal experience was an outlier in the dataset and should be discounted. Probably.

Bojidar cleared his throat, and Harry immediately drew out of his scheming. "It is obvious there is some internal tension in Britain affairs at present. I am aware my invitation to this ball was extended to me in your hand writing, but by the will of a different man. Tell me, why has a Dark Lord grown interested in my small fortune? I am not the most blessed in my country- he must know that if he will not even grant me his presence. And I am not comfortable with my sister becoming a possible target for her connections with me."

"I can assure you that will never happen. I am not so underhanded that I would allow a mark be placed on a child," Harry said earnestly.

He was lying through his teeth, and Krastev knew it.

"Harry," he said lowly, deliberately. "My grandfather was in the era of Grindelwald, and he made it his duty to educate my family on Dark Lords and their machinations. In the interest of transparency and diplomacy, I would ask you to stop your games. What does your Lord want from me?"

And Harry always liked to play around with his jobs before the fun got spoiled. So much for that.

He sighed, before dropping the act. In place of his smile grew a darker smirk, eyes narrowing. This facial expression came straight from Voldemort himself, and was very handy when things got down to business.

"You have a small farm back at home for Dragon breeding, do you not? I find myself in possession of a Basilisk den and I need a terrain for them to be raised."

"You find yourself with a Basilisk den?"

Harry leaned forward trying to look a smidgen irritated, a little impatient. Just to make him think he was cracking.

"Bojiddar, I am housing a Dark Lord. And My Lord happens to be a King of Serpents, and is quite proud of it. Of course he has Basilisks; but there is not enough room in Britain to harness them. I shall like your farm."

"And my dragons? Besides, how can I breed and raise Basilisks if I cannot even look upon them?"

"We shall make arrangements in Romania with another Dragon breeder. And I will lend you a band of our blind Basilisk Keepers. As for your dear sister, we offer the full extent of our capabilities for protection. We do not involve children in our politics for the most part."

Bojidar looked stricken and ready to defend the ownership of his farm until morning; "You have already decided all of this and will bully me until I agree."

Harry reveled in his victory, gave a dashing sneer. "Does that surprise you?"

"You cannot just seize my property, Undersecretary!"

"Perhaps you should have considered this before accepting my invitation?"

"You cannot do this!"

"I think," Harry hissed, placing a tight hand on the man's knee and letting some raw magic static around them, "you will find that I can."

The door opened, and a very irate looking Hermione stood in its frame. Harry's sinister face melted away, and he backed out of Bojidar's personal space.

"Harry, sorry to interrupt. Have you seen Ron? I can't find him anywhere."

Harry looked his friend up and down, surprised to see her- dressed in shimmering dress robes that hugged her neck and waist finely, her hair pinned up in a high bun that rather reminded him of a young McGonagall. In her hand was a thick file, a quill tucked behind her ear. It seemed she was finished with staying behind.

"Probably in the lounge playing chess with people he pretends he doesn't like. If not there, I'd ask a House Elf to check the lower levels," Harry didn't say the Torture Chambers, because that was extremely morbid and off-putting, but one never knew when old grudges would stir up between Death Eater and Honorary Order Member. There was a rule that the old adversaries could fight it out one on one in certain designated dungeons until they worked it out or killed each other. You'd be surprised how many fought until they simply stopped and went out for a pint together after, tattered and bloodied and seemingly at peace.

Hermione huffed affectionately, a curl at her cheekbone floating upward before she smiled weakly.

"Thank you."

She shut the door behind her, and a silence settled. When Harry turned his gaze back to the man beside him, he had to clear his throat to get his attention again.

"Who was that?" Krastev asked. His voice sounded strained, impatient.

"An old friend," Harry answered carefully. "Now, about your farm-"

"You can have it," Bojidar jumped in, taking both of Harry's hands in his own, and staring into his eyes intently. "If you give me that young woman."

Harry blinked, trying to mask his surprise. He wanted Hermione in exchange for his acres upon acres of land that was probably worth hundreds of thousands? Well. It wasn't up to Harry to put a price on his friend's head. He did feel irrationally slighted, however. What did Hermione have that Harry's seduction had obviously lacked? But Bojidar's cheeks were flushed and his dark eyes wide. Ah, men.

So easy to sway with the scent of sweet flesh.

Harry smiled reassuringly.

"Done."

When Harry got back to the party, the majority of the guests had moved on to the feast. The musicians had moved to the other side of the balcony, where it nested over the large table people were already sitting at and digging in.

"Ah, there's Lady Malfoy looking absolutely ravishing," Harry hummed, bidding Krastev farewell (not that the man minded at all; he was already sniffing around for the fair lady who had captured the cockles of his heart and loins so easily).

Harry wound off to where Narcissa and Draco stood by the last windows overlooking a dreary garden (they were still in Lestrange territory after all, and none of them could claim to be master foresters). He got their attention with a light smile and a smooth hand on Narcissa's upper arm.

"My dear Lady Malfoy, you look positively stunning."

Narcissa gave a cold smile, appreciating the compliment.

"Get away from my mother, Potter! Get your hands off of her," Draco all but shrieked- quietly, mind, because he was in public, and if appearances didn't come first for a Malfoy, then Harry was sure the universe would fall out of balance (too much rich bitch on one side, and not enough class on the other).

"Are you playing white knight, Draco?" Harry teased, watching for that vein that would appear on Draco's forehead, his favorite feature of Draco's. It pulsed so satisfyingly when Harry irritated him enough. "Does that make me the impudent rogue?"

"I'm warning you, Potter!"

"I've told you I'm legal, haven't I?" Harry pretended to whisper. "If only you weren't married to that beast, Lucius."

Narcissa placed a hand on her own cheek, turning away from his face so that she looked offended despite the corners of her mouth showing otherwise; "Such a vulgar mouth! From a Halfblood, no less- it's downright shameful."

"You like my vulgar mouth; don't deny it. Especially because I'm a dirty Halfblood."

"Potter!" Draco exploded.

"Draco, why don't you go find Blaise? I do need to speak with the Undersecretary for a moment," Narcissa assuaged, brushing Draco's silky blonde hair away from his forehead with a gentle, calming gesture.

Draco huffed, probably upset that Harry got treated more like an adult than he did, despite him being a few months his senior. He wandered off obediently with a pout.

Narcissa scoffed; "You had better be more mindful of your mouth before you get in trouble, boy."

Harry looked off innocently; "Whatever could you mean?"

Narcissa looked extremely incredulous with her raised eyebrows and deadpan look- an expression rather inelegant of her. He decided not to try convincing her, instead placing her arm in the crook of his (despite her being quite a bit taller than him), and leading her with the flow of people headed towards the dining room.

"Perhaps I could do with a little less penalty," he told the Mistress, thinking about the way Voldemort's face twisted into gleeful bloodlust whenever he was making Harry pay for flirting. But the Malfoys were so bloody gorgeous. He laughed quietly under his breath.

"Speaking of which, I believe you are being summoned," Narcissa murmured, looking on to where both the Dark Lord and Lucius stood near the archways at the head of the main table (there were smaller tables arranged around it, for the lesser ranks of Voldemort's company). They were looking right at the pair, and Voldemort had his hand raised, his fingers crooked and beckoning.

"It looks as though your punishments will not be lessening tonight, Mr. Potter."

Indeed, Voldemort was looking sour—to be expected since he almost always looked sour—but there was something particularly enraged going on in that exotic face.

Merlin, what could he have possibly done in the time of an hour?

"Perhaps it was because you took your time with the Bulgarian delegate? Hasn't the Dark Lord warned you to never mix your work life with your play? I hear he's given you grief over your personal matters."

"Please. Krastev was more concerned with other pretty things than he was with me. I am but an ornamental satellite to the Dark Lord's orbit in his opinion," Harry replied easily, sounding bitter even though Krastev's perspective was practically right on the mark. And besides, in Voldemort's words, Dark Lords do not get jealous. He knew no one else did it for Harry- he's been ruined by Voldemort's incomparable prowess.

He couldn't help but wonder how it was that Narcissa was still unaware of just how much Voldemort was involved in Harry's personal matters. He figured those in the know would have spouted off by now.

Harry didn't stall any further, weaving between Death Eaters and used-to-be-enemies with used-to-be-Orders- one big, happy, dysfunctional family, members of which occasionally beat one another bloody. He waved at Ron and Luna and Hermione as he passed them (and he was so proud of Hermione for stepping out and into the snake's pit tonight; she was so brave. He was sure she could handle Krastev's advances), and finally reached Voldemort's side.

"Having a good evening so far?" he asked pleasantly, "You look a little stiff."

Harry was referring to the angry wrinkles in Voldemort's forehead from his hard scowling and the vein protruding from his neck. He wanted to prod at the pulsing menace and eventually soothe it with his antagonistic, flirtatious jabs, but didn't want to press his luck.

"Mr. Potter, a word please," his voice was extremely strained, and Harry looked to Lucius with a questioning look only to find the little weasel had disappeared in the crowd. He held in a growl and turned back to the Dark Lord.

"I'll have you know, I've got Bojidar Krastev right where we want him. Fell in my lap within five minutes- all according to my" and here, Harry crossed his fingers, "carefully laid plans of course. The farm is ours when his sister starts Hogwarts next month-"

"Potter."

The Dark Lord's voice was more intense than the first time he said his name, and Harry finally looked up at the man directly, his forced smile slipping once he saw the fire burning behind the blood-crimson slits aimed at him.

"...Yes?"

"Come. Now," Voldemort said, and gripped the back of Harry's neck tightly.

He winced (skin to skin contact still reduced him into a shivering puddle because of that weird static burn that passed between them), and allowed Voldemort to swiftly lead him out of the Hall through a side door, not looking over his shoulder to see what his friends' faces might look like at the obvious aggression in Voldemort's nails. And really, what a terrible example it was for the children to see their parents in a tiff!

Voldemort should know better.

He was led down a dark hallway until they reached a stair well. The Dark Lord stopped, let his grip fall as he began to pace. Harry crossed his arms over his chest and tried his best to not look as incredulous as he was feeling. He could feel his wand tucked in the harness at his waist, warm and ready should he need it. It wouldn't be the first time Voldemort had initiated a random duel to relieve stress. When nothing was said- just the constant scraping of Voldemort's heavy footfalls on stone- Harry rolled his eyes.

"What's happened to piss you off, now?"

"I do not know why I agreed to humor your little peace stunt when I can hardly stand you and your company."

"Because I give amazing blow jobs?" he ventured a guess, trying to lighten the mood before things got deadly.

The taller man rounded on him, and suddenly, there was an iron grip around his neck and a rough wall in his shoulder blades; "Not everything revolves around you, Golden Boy. You are lucky your little Mudblood girl is still breathing-"

His voice was quite, high and biting, and had Harry been able to breathe, he would have replied with something equally as scathing. He hoped the sentiment could be read in his eyes. He wanted to demand what Hermione had done, and what the Dark Lord had done to Hermione, but he had seen her not thirty seconds ago alive and well and not bleeding anywhere at all- maybe a bit harried but she was surrounded by people who kept glaring down at her from their ridiculously high-pointed noses (and from the footnotes of history, inbreeding says to anatomy, you are welcome). What had Hermione done to turn Voldemort into (more of) a raging madman?

By now, Harry's lips were beginning to tingle, and the pressure behind his eyes was forcing them to water viciously. His lungs burned.

Hurriedly, Voldemort's other hand worked through Harry's first robe and began yanking roughly at his trousers.

"Yerrghvv kkghgh!" (You've got to be kidding me!) Harry choked out.

He managed to slip a few breaths in as Voldemort was too occupied with ridding him of his lower garments, as he couldn't work on choking him any longer. Harry's pants pooled at his ankles, one of his legs pulled up to Voldemort's waist so forcefully, his shoe fell off to hit the stone floor with a dull thump.

"Not everything is about you," Voldemort hissed again, almost sounding like he was talking to himself instead of to Harry, and, making sure that Harry's leg was securely hooked in place, grabbed Harry around the throat again, lined himself up, and muscled his way through Harry's clenching entrance dry the same time he cut off his airway.

They stood like that, Harry wishing he'd had the forethought to stop going commando everywhere he went but quite unable to think coherently anyway with the excruciating burn he was trying to cope with. Voldemort breathed harshly into Harry's mess of hair, as if rubbing it in his asphyxiated face that he could breathe in the first place. There was a crackle of pure, wandless magic that made Harry's fingertips burn, made the air heavy with the scent of simmering ashes. It was terrifying.

Voldemort leaned back, his other hand coming to join the first, leaving Harry completely suffocated- to admire, Harry realized through his hardly opened eyes. Admire how the blood rushed to pool in the natural dips in his face and the white around his green gaze, as if Voldemort's own irises were invading Harry (So invasive, he had said earlier).

The Dark Lord moved and Harry let out a muffled shout of alarmed pain, using his death grip as leverage to keep Harry's body suspended in place, and finally, with the shock of tearing and ripping going from Harry's arse to his back and beyond, he brought his hands up to fumble against his frenzied partner's. Their gazes locked, and Harry's struggling and gurgles made Voldemort's eyes burn brighter.

It's a turn on for him, Harry realized, gnashing his teeth desperately when he gave a harder thrust that had Harry's entrance involuntarily clenching- the very last thing Harry wanted to do, and the resulting pain was so blinding he thought it might actually make him pass out.

Voldemort grinned in reply, his hands wrapping tighter until his fingers could thread together at the base of Harry's hair line.

The attack was relentless, the penetration brutal at best. Harry's vision became blurry, and it wasn't just because of his glasses getting knocked off. He grit his teeth and finally let his eyes close, the pressure in his head almost comparable to the burning he used to tolerate from his scar. His arms grew warm and weak, unable to push anymore and resorting to just gripping scaly wrists for the sake of it. The burning in his lungs shadowed the cold feel of Voldemort's kiss, the ache in his throat muffling any stimulation that the dry fucking hadn't abolished. His head would have lulled forward if not for his neck being unable to move.

He passed out before Voldemort finished, but the first thing he said when he came-to was a hoarse "Guhgh!" getting a taste of the stone floor as his face was pressed against it. His breathing was wheezy, and he couldn't blink the black spots in his sight away.

"What the fuck-"

He winced as a searing pain throbbed at his tonsils, and a pair of hands pulled him up by his shoulders until he was leaning into robes he knew by the smell, by the feel. He leaned against the Dark Lord and closed his eyes, just focused on breathing, and how thankful he was that he could. Voldemort stroked Harry's hair, petted him, as if he was trying to soothe him, and licked long stripes up the tender length of his neck, collar to jaw and again. He placed kisses to the tear streaks that Harry hadn't been aware of previously down his hot face, rubbed his sides.

He felt cloudy, dizzy, but not enough to curb his anger; "A lubricating charm," he forced out, on a voice that cracked and gargled, and pinched Voldemort's arm as hard as he could, "At the very least, you bastard, a lubricating charm."

Needless to say, Harry went home after blasting Voldemort with a bout of his own Wandless magic through the wall he'd been violated against.

Not bothering to go to a healer for his injuries, Harry had rubbed some salve in the worst of it and left it all to heal on its own (because mad or not, there was something fucking hot about having purple hand prints around his neck. Not so much scabs in the lining of his rectum, but nothing an Episkey couldn't handle.)

He spent his Sunday wearing a turtleneck.

"Harry!"

He jerked violently at the sound of a door bursting open and the furious call of his name, spilling hot tea in his lap. Harry groaned, trying to sop the mess up with a napkin before it stained as Ron appeared around the corner of Harry's front foyer and into the kitchen.

"You could have knocked," he deadpanned, showing the wet patches on his crotch as he set his cup down dejectedly, "Or used an inside voice. Either one would have been preferable."

"I don't give a shit!" Ron shouted, still advancing. He grabbed Harry's shirt at the shoulder, forcing him to stand up, and Harry put his hands up in an asking for peace sort of way, "Give me one reason why I shouldn't hex you!"

"I bought you that raunchy mag for your birthday and promised to never tell anyone about it?"

Ron's face went blank for a second; "You did?"

Harry gave a hesitant slow nod, relieved, but Ron scowled again.

"Never mind that! What the hell do you mean by telling some guy from Bulgaria twice our age a thumbs up to having a go with Hermione? You gave a stranger permission to pursue your best mate's fiance!"

"She said yes then? To your proposal, I mean,"

Ron took a step back and threw his hands up.

"Of course she bloody well said yes! Harry, what the fuck is wrong with you?"

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes; "You're exaggerating. Hermione can handle Krastev. It's not like she would have agreed to any of his courtship anyway," Harry narrowed a stare at Ron's flushed face. "You haven't beaten up Krastev, have you? Threatened him in any way?"

"And why shouldn't I? You should have seen him trying to make a pass at her every few seconds last night, as if she were some object you can pass off to the first bidder! And on top of Hermione threatening Voldemort- if he so much as touches her, I'll sic Fred and George on him."

Harry paled. "You're bluffing."

"Then, if he's still alive, I'll tell Bellatrix he's planning to assassinate your precious Dark Lord," he insisted.

"I have business with him, Ron-"

"Your business with your best friends is supposed to come before your business with cradle snatching politicians!"

"Okay," Harry sat at his table again, placating his friend, "I'll make another deal with him. I'm sorry."

Ron looked at him for a long time before shaking his head.

"That's just it. You're not sorry at all. You don't care that you used Hermione- practically your sister, Harry- as a bargaining chip for a raise or because your Lord said so. You spend more time up Lucius Malfoy's arse than you do at the Burrow. We're your family; not them,"

Ron looked at him imploringly, and he looked away some-what guiltily.

"I visited last Sunday for Ginny's birthday,"

"A twenty minute cup of coffee before you went off to go see him!"

Harry cut a glance at him; "I have a pretty demanding job... And he has a name, you know"

Ron swatted at the air with a hand, as though swatting Harry's words like a bug.

"And what do you mean Hermione threatened Voldemort? Does she have a death wish or something?"

Ron just narrowed his gaze at him, not bothering to be diverted.

"Hermione said she's seen those nasty books lying around your study: Merlin's Guide through the Darkness, Parselmagicks, Perry's Book of Illegal Poisons; you've been using the Dark Arts... liberally! You're... you're dark, Harry."

He sucked on the inside of his cheek and glanced around the room in a slow circling path, gesturing vaguely.

"Not liberally."

Ron heaved a breath, his shoulders relaxing in defeat, Harry hoped.

"Anyway, Hermione told him to stop infecting you with his negative energy and told him that it was his job to take care of you and-" Ron made a face like he was going to be sick, and Harry reached for his garbage bin with his foot and nudged it towards his friend pointedly, "And that if he was going to monopolize your affections, he had better start making this country a safer place for you or she'd be taking you away."

"She said what?"

Well, no wonder Voldemort was pissed. Harry didn't feel guilty at all for putting Hermione in the jaws of a perverted old man- it was her fault he got mauled!

"She's crazy, I know. But I kind of think she has a point- we agreed to rule with him because it was the most balanced way to end the war. You're not supposed to be converted!"

Harry waved him off. What a bunch of hippogriff shit- he wasn't being converted.

There was a beat of silence.

"What the hell happened to your neck by the way?"

Harry fixed his turtleneck, from where it had been pulled down by Ron's earlier roughing-up, before shooting his friend a saucy smile.

"Something kinky."

Perhaps Ron was right, Harry reflected later that week. He was being a bit self-centered, a little callused, getting so wrapped up in the icky-sticky personalities at the Ministry and in Voldemort's ranks. But that was to be _expected_ \- one couldn't advance without first assimilating. He wasn't _dark_... He was just. Not light. And it wasn't like Ron and Hermione were beacons of innocence. Hermione had played just as big a part in building the current Wizarding Britain as Harry, and Ron had been right there beside them. Why wasn't Ron complaining about Neville going off on missions with Avery and Mulciber at the end of every other month? Or that Luna had been infiltrating the Unspeakables? When in Rome, and all that.

Harry frowned, staring down at the papers in his hand without actually seeing them.

"This is why one should never go to bed without first making up," he muttered to himself, casting the papers on his desk and leaning back in his chair.

He looked across the room where the portrait of his parents hang, and Dumbledore beside it. He looked very interested in what Harry was thinking. _I bet you are_ , he mentally snarled.

"I don't suppose you have anything to say about this?"

Dumbledore smiled benignly; "My boy, I never thought I'd see you go into government affairs. I must admit seeing you like this and what happens in this office-"

Harry winced. He might have gone down on Voldemort in here more than once when his youthful lust got the better of him. It made looking his at parents in their painted faces a little difficult.

Dumbledore gave a meaningful cough.

"I am proud of you, Harry. While I might have preferred you make different decisions on a few certain issues, I cannot deny that you have become quite the remarkable young man."

Dumbledore's most recent theory was that with Harry's slow influence on Voldemort's heart, this would be a loophole to fulfilling the prophecy: the Dark Lord was technically just a set of ideas Tom Riddle placed himself behind. If Harry's influence killed those ideas, the Dark Lord would die as well. What Dumbledore seemed to not realize was that in reality, it was the other way around. The Golden Boy was being tarnished, one virtue at a time. Slowly. Thoroughly.

Harry shivered.

"Oh shut up, you old goat," Voldemort snapped. "We know exactly how you would have liked all of this to end."

And speaking of the Dark Lord, he happened to be seated by the window, doing nothing but sulking about his office because Harry had been giving him the cold shoulder ever since that last encounter.

"I'm sorry dear, did you say something? I can't hear you around the enormous size of your ego."

Voldemort glared at him.

"I don't wish to be the bringer of bad news, my boy," Dumbledore was saying, stroking his beard, "But you deserve better."

Harry clicked his nails on the surface of his armchair and glanced back at his work without having the intention of doing anything with it; "Preposterous. Voldemort is the strongest and smartest wizard alive. If I deserved better, I'd have to start fucking myself."

Dumbledore and Harry's parents made faces at his crassness.

"Are you suggesting you are a better match for yourself than I am?" Voldemort asked, his head tilted upward in a peevish manner.

"Did I hurt your feelings or something?" Harry snorted rudely, rotating his chair so that more of his body was turned away from the Dark Lord.

"I can't help but feel you are mad at Tom for some reason, Harry," Dumbledore hinted.

"That artist really captured your intuitiveness, Professor."

The old man smiled obliviously.

"Weren't you the one who claimed to love me?" Voldemort purred, standing up, and prowling around the desk, ignoring the late Headmaster.

" _Love_ you?" he shouted in alarm, looking up at him.

"Is it so impossible?" Voldemort whispered, crouching so that he was caging Harry in his chair. He put his white hands over his smaller ones on the arm rests.

"In fact- it is!"

Dumbledore sniffed.

"It _is_!" Harry insisted at the old man, "And shut up— snake-face is right; it's got nothing to do with you."

"Snake face?"

"I hate to break it to you love, but you looked better under that turban."

"I would suggest couples counseling."

"That's it!" Harry snapped, pointing his finger and craning his neck to glare at Dumbledore from behind Voldemort's broad shoulders. "You're getting removed! Severus Snape has just inherited a Dumbledore portrait."

A hand grasped his chin to bring him back to the Dark Lord's looming face; "Who is it crooning and sighing about how much he loves my scales all day?"

"I can like your scales and hate you! I'm a brilliant multi-tasker. And what are you doing in here all the time anyway? Haven't you got your own office? Your own half of the country to rule?"

"And who gave you the half you rule, hm?"

"Just get out of my office!"

"Now you're being evasive."

"You're being _invasive_."

"Come here, Harry," his voice was low, gruff, and even though the man was already in Harry's personal space, there was still half a foot between their faces. He wanted Harry to close the gap. Lazy. Coward. Arse!

"The last time you said that it was so you could strangle me- over something Hermione said!"

"Is that was happened to your neck?"

This time, they ignored Dumbledore altogether.

"I think everyone in this room can safely say they're not buying your injured lover act. I'd like to remind you that it was you who assaulted me first. On the Malfoy dinner table. In front of my Death Eaters."

"You sent them out before anything happened!"

"Just admit that you're a kinky wretch and you liked getting strangled," Voldemort was almost purring now, his fingers caressing Harry's face delicately.

"How about you admit that you were in the wrong for damaging my precious insides? I need those, you know- like for the rest of my life! I am this close- this. Close... to testing out that new Belgian curse on you if you don-"

"Shall I be gentle tonight then, child? Touch you softly where no other has before?"

He fought Voldemort's hands off of him and rolled his desk chair to the other side of the room in a tactical retreat.

"There _is_ no tonight, you _wanker_."

"Right now, then?"

"Piss. Off! You're just pouting because you got scolded by Hermione."

Voldemort hissed, took four large steps until he was hovering over Harry again, and grabbed him up by the front of his robes.

"Your little Mudblood walked away unscathed. I can remedy that at any-"

"I will raze you and all of your Wizarding Britain to the ground if a hand is laid on her," Harry snarled as he was shoved onto his own desk, legs sprawled apart.

He whipped his wand out and pressed it into the man's neck.

Voldemort made a guttural snorting noise, and with the barest of effort, yanked the holly right out of his hand and turned it so that he was the holder.

"Thank you," with a flick, Harry's robes were banished, and to be honest, at this point he wasn't really putting up much of a fight.

"Is sex really all you can think about?" he asked up at the man as he pushed his robes up so that his bare groin could rest solidly on top of Harry's balls.

"It works infallibly when I need to assert my dominance over you," he agreed smugly, digging his long nails into the smooth flesh of Harry's backside. "What was it you said the other night? Ah, a lubricating charm at the very least, and me, being the merciful Lord that I am, shall grant the very least to you."

Voldemort waved Harry's wand and he narrowed his eyes as a foreign warmth oozed in deep places it didn't belong. Still, Harry shuddered, and the movement caused Voldemort to grin evilly. He pushed all the way in, in one go, and while it did still burn, Harry clenched his teeth and hummed, the force of the thrust knocking him forward until his head hung off the back of it. He saw the picture of Dumbledore and- was the man blushing?

"Now, look into the eyes of your precious headmaster while Lord Voldemort forces you to submit."

Technically he'd already submitted, but that didn't mean Harry couldn't pretend.

"Never!" he snapped, playing the role, but the anger in his face quickly drained away as the Dark Lord began a slow, sure rhythm that had his toes curling around the wood of his desk and the whites of his eyes showing. The rest of his protest dwindled off into a series of keening moans- he'd never get used to this. Never.

Like last time, white hands trailed up to Harry's throat, but instead of gripping like he feared (anticipated, hoped) they would, Voldemort cupped the back of his neck and leaned down until Harry had to cross his eyes in order to see him in focus.

"You will never be satisfied with any other, Harry Potter."

Oh yeah, it was Harry who would never be satisfied with any other. He hadn't ever seen Voldemort looking at the bunch lined up and ready to jump into the Dark Lord's sheets in any consideration. But it was Harry who would never find sexual solace in another.

Maybe, Harry considered as the rest of their tryst dissolved into grunts and clawing and kisses that might have had a hint of tenderness in them; maybe there was a slight chance- a very slim, minuscule chance- that Harry held some form of twisted, unhealthy and definitely damaging love for this man.

"Just... just shut up," he finally gasped in a spectacular and oh-so creative parry, completely resistant and not at all happy at this new, secret admission.

Voldemort smiled- an out of practice almost grotesque hybrid of cringe and smirk before settling into a charming, very real smile.

Harry felt his stomach do that pesky flipping thing that happened whenever the Dark Lord did something especially cute.

No- never. Harry groaned in embarrassment and pushed Voldemort away by pressing his palm into the man's chin who took pleasure in the resurgence of resistance, mistaking the red flush on his chest from Dumbledore's presence (but the man had at some point long left his portrait, so the point was moot).

What was Harry thinking- _love_? _Voldemort_?

Impossible!


	5. Chapter 5

Perhaps, Voldemort thought to himself, there was an ancient Siren's bloodline in Harry. How else might the child tempt and lure so many happy victims into disadvantageous and often overpriced endeavors? (And at that, Voldemort did not miss the irony; he, himself a happy victim to Harry's whiles occasion upon occasion… It was most likely beyond time to implement an allowance on the boy, in both coin and mercy). Harry's victims fell upon him in apparent bliss, with smiles for days and purse strings loose. It was very different from the victims Voldemort was used to seeing (blood, terror, pleading for one's life, sometimes the occasional vomiting; the usual checklist down a Dark Lord's victimization rubric).

The unobserved observer, Voldemort watched Harry bat his eyelashes, stroke shoulders; yes, yes, the German Prime Minister would be more than happy to donate her collection of whatever shimmering distraction Harry fell in love with this month (an expensive crystal statue of Helga Hufflepuff here, a series of erotic troll paintings there; Harry seemed to have passion for _things._ Perhaps it was the deprived childhood. Harry's only defense was "It's not like we're Marxists, darling"). The boy never gained much in the way of learning the touch of subtlety, and… never needed it, to be frank. It seemed the more obvious Harry's ploy, the more willing his audience was to buy it.

Voldemort would say he didn't understand, if only watching Harry work did not burn him with an insatiable need to have him always. He would admit; half was an inherent incestuous obsession. An infatuation of self in all the ways Voldemort saw his own influence reflected in the shape of Harry's being. That Harry would forever be preserved by and pregnant with Voldemort's soul. It was spurring to forge Harry in his own image, one that was all his (particularly with the whole of the world watching; Dumbledore from his portrait frozen and unable to stop it, Harry's poor, worried friends. Was it too obvious that Voldemort initiated sex most often where others would know?)

Voldemort supposed the other half of his inexplicable yearning was due to Harry himself. Voldemort was not incapable of recognizing merit. His lovely flesh, soft and pink in vulnerable places, his bird-like legs and boyish face. He had all his extremities, the right number of toes and fingers, so he was of acceptable form for a human, though no feature was especially striking or exemplary (and it was why he would suspect Siren blood, as despite all Harry's mediocrity, Voldemort found he could not ever look away). Except for perhaps his eyes, those luminous portals of… Well, Voldemort was no poet. But his eyes seemed to hold unsuspecting persons under an unbreakable enchantment, and when Voldemort looked into them, those incandescent orbs… The point was, his eyes held some effect or power or a very uncomfortable, incurable disease at the very least. (Whatever the case may be, Voldemort was mightily afflicted).

Aside from his form, Harry could be described second to only Albus Dumbledore as doubtlessly the most obnoxious type of creature to ever crawl upon the face of the earth or any other yet undiscovered life-supporting planet in the cosmos. Headstrong, not too bright. Opinionated about _everything_ , despite being a shameless charlatan who farmed all of his knowledge from others. And perhaps it was his own fault for being so lenient, but he'd come to accept that being infuriated by Harry was their Monday through Sunday, and that he'd most annoyingly realized he liked it. (This would not be so terrible in and of itself if Harry didn't also know it. You see what he meant by affliction, surely).

"Yes, I _so_ look forward to receiving your Jörmungandr bones, Prime Minister," Harry said, ushering the blinking woman to the fireplace with a smile and a wave, glancing down at his pocketwatch. "Do have a careful trip back; watch your step. Ta! Auf wiedersehen!"

The dazzled Prime Minister stumbled into the fireplace with a hesitant smile, then disappeared into the Floo Network before she could rightly comprehend what had happened, leaving them alone in Harry's office.

The office itself was a room of some dimension with decorations of some notability (and Voldemort found he didn't have much of an opinion for interior design; Harry could criticize him all he liked for his musty laboratories and dust-caked chambers, but when exactly was Voldemort expected to keep house in between all of the Dark Lording? It was much easier to force his Death Eaters to host meetings and avoid the argument altogether. Dumbledore, many many years ago, had once told a young Tom Riddle to choose his battles wisely. He'd never admit to following any advice from the likes of Albus Dumbledore. But damned if he didn't suddenly understand it when handling a Harry who could wax for hours about why Voldemort would benefit from living in a house that could pass a health inspection).

"I think that's a new record," Harry announced, smiling his Prince Charming smile (literally; Witch Weekly had labeled several of Harry's smiles in their articles, from Bad Boy Heartbreaker to Boyfriend Material. Voldemort's personal favorite was Wicked Mischief) and tapping his watch. "Ten minutes. Do you know what this means?"

Voldemort oozed out of the shadows and sat behind Harry's desk in Harry's chair just to see the boy's face pinch in annoyance. "Idiocy is contagious."

Harry's eyebrows lowered in a particularly endearing way. They should consider labeling his scowls too. Voldemort would call this one Spoiled and Foiled.

"Very bloody funny. Your talents are wasted as a Dark Lord. Clearly, you belong in Weasley's Wizard Wheezes."

Harry seemed to often mistake Voldemort's honest statements as jokes.

"What I was _going_ to say, is this means we have fifteen minutes before Zabini comes to remind me I have a meeting with Shacklebolt."

He was already throwing a locking charm at the door, waggling his eyebrows the whole way, and pulling Voldemort to the fireplace.

"I'm _dying_ to get out of here. Merlin, is it too early to _retire_?" Harry groaned.

"You've been Undersecretary for ten months."

"Practically a lifetime!"

He threw the ash at their feet and barked "Chamber of Dirty Secrets!" in between his rant.

"I thought being rich and powerful meant delegating the work out to other people," Harry was complaining as he unfastened his robes a layer at a time and threw them carelessly about the foyer of the Chamber of Dirty Secrets (Harry's idea of a good joke).\

Home was a simply made slab on the isolated bank of Norwegian lake Gråsjøen. The international Floo rate was exorbitant (not that Harry hadn't hustled his way to a discount), but Harry insisted it was well worth the galleon to have a secret retreat where even his most tenacious secretary could not track them down (Voldemort tended to agree, but he put up resistance to most of Harry's propositions on principle, as he suspected Harry did to him).

He turned to pin a look on Voldemort as though to suggest it was his fault Harry had to work so much.

"I wouldn't be able to withstand you if you were unemployed."

Imagine all the extra time they would have to spend together.

Harry snorted.

"Says the unemployed, self-assigned Dark Lord mooching off my honest, hard-earned government money."

Voldemort could admit half the satisfaction was that it _was_ government money. A puppet government which he mostly controlled, but nonetheless.

Harry turned in a circle for Voldemort, now completely nude and shameless. "Really, if I had known how many hours I would be working, I would have just let you kill me. I don't deserve to suffer this way."

Voldemort hummed, closed the distance between them and grasped Harry by the neck.

"Then I will show you how you are meant to suffer."

He tore them from the receiving room to the bedroom with the force of apparition, and with a great push, shoved Harry onto the bed where Nagini was already curled. She reared her head back and hissed at being disturbed.

" _Nagini,_ " he purred. " _Bind him._ "

" _Excuse_ me?" Harry gasped, but Nagini was already slithering along Harry's bare skin, and the heat which flooded Voldemort upon seeing his two greatest treasures twined together was all consuming. Harry became flushed as he seemed to realize Voldemort's feelings, and ceased fighting the coiling of Nagini's body up his arms and around his neck. Her tongue flicked against his cheek, teeth bared. Voldemort could see her great muscled body tightening on instinct, and he found himself jealous of her; that she could mould herself to Harry's form, around and around, rub every contour and bring rise the sting of fear through their connection.

"This seems unnecessarily risky," Harry whined weakly. " _Nagini, let me go._ "

" _You are not my master,_ " she replied, jaw snapping.

" _Very good_ ," Voldemort told her, shedding his own robe like a skin and placing a knee upon the bed.

"You know, when I made that joke about a threesome the other day, this was not exactly what I had in mind."

Voldemort placed his hands on each of Harry's knees and yanked them apart. "You should have specified."

Harry meant to say something more, he was sure, but Nagini decided she had heard enough and squeezed her bulk around his neck. If there was one consistency about Harry, it was that he never seemed to be at a loss for words.

"Hrngh."

Unless Voldemort strangled him, of course.

"Do you remember," he asked softly, fingers trailing around Harry's sensitive navel, not scratching but aware of the potential, "the first time I truly touched you?"

Harry gave him a deadpan look.

"Ah, I knew you would," he sighed. "You were bound then as well, to my father's grave. You were the first my newborn body touched; isn't that something? Perhaps I imprinted on you. And how you _screamed_. I will cherish this shared memory forever."

Voldemort thought there was something to it even all the way back then; Harry even more young and vulnerable, pinned to a headstone and always, always brave, had simply looked _exquisite_.

Who knew he could be so romantic? Voldemort was constantly surprising himself.

"If only you were still so young and manipulable."

At that, Harry glared (and who was Voldemort kidding? Harry may have at one point been slightly more naive than he was now, but no less stubborn or obstinate; he supposed even he was susceptible to romanticizing the past). Harry's eyes were swimming and his face was turning a lovely shade of purple as Nagini kept the pressure steady.

Voldemort pressed his thumb against Harry's exposed hole, rubbing slow circles into the skin, and Harry's body bent and bowed. "Perhaps you are still a little manipulable. Docile. There are spells, ones which could give you a wet cunt always ready to be fucked."

Harry's face was puckered and red with horror, though his flushed arousal twitched against his belly. Voldemort grinned, hissing.

He summoned oil to his fingers, slid them in the clutching warmth. His fingers were accepted easily, met with no resistance, and Voldemort spoiled Harry with gentle strokes to his prostate.

"Though it seems you're halfway there already. Preparing you these days is a mere empty, if polite, gesture."

Voldemort had always considered himself generous.

It became apparent Harry was losing consciousness, only twitching bodily and gurgling in his throat. He thought about letting him faint, playing with his lax and pliant body, waking him only when he was stuffed full and stretched wide. It was a thought worth exploring later.

Harry had to be back at the Ministry soon, after all. Pity.

" _Nagini_ ," he hissed, and his faithful serpent uncoiled herself from around Harry's neck.

Harry gasped, began coughing.

"Do _not_ ," he wheezed, managing to wriggle an arm free of Nagini and batting at Voldemort's hand between his thighs, "do _any_ sort of modifications involving cunts or anything else. Leave my arse be, for god's sake!"

Voldemort smiled. He caught Harry's flailing wrist and kissed the palm. "Right now?"

Harry glared at him before slumping back against the mattress. "No, not right now! Finish fucking me at least."

He did. He forced Harry's captured hand to stroke oil onto his arousal before grasping his knees once more and lining up. He rolled his back and hips forward, inhaled and savoured the first plunge. Harry hissed in approval.

Their connection always blurred during sex, and Voldemort could feel the echo of Harry's sensations along his spine, could feel his body burn in that warm-blooded, mammal way, could remember the feel of sweat coming from his pores and other such bodily afflictions he was no longer subjected to. Burrowed within Harry as he was, Voldemort was thankful he retained at least some bestial function. It had been difficult to predict how the ritual would reconstruct his body, mixed as the ingredients were. This serpentine, humanoid vessel did very well; in both harnessing and releasing magic masterfully, as well as fucking Harry beyond speech. A win-win, by all accounts.

He went to command Nagini to strangle Harry again because he was starting to miss the look of flushed panic in the boy's eyes, and found the lout sleeping, her head tucked against Harry's pulse, completely immune to the jostle of their coupling (and not surprised really; she'd more than once fallen asleep mid-dinner, the twitching legs of an unfortunate Death Eater—ex-Death Eater, he should say—sticking out of her relaxed jaws. He'd offered to cut her dinners into portions, but she considered the idea unappetizing). He could feel their links blurring, her lethargy and contentment, Harry's ecstasy, and Voldemort's own perpetual rage mingling within him a most tasty mixture. One day, he would have to bed Harry with the rest of his remaining Horcruxes just to feel the sensation of wholeness and companionship- with himself of past dispositions and personalities. (If he could ever trust to have all of his Horcruxes in the same room as Harry. Perhaps with a blindfold and without his knowledge).

Probably not the threesome Harry had had in mind either.

When they finished, Harry's mouth gasping against Nagini's scales, his belly splashed with Voldemort's efforts, they lay side by side. Harry grumbled, pushed and wiggled on Nagini until she grew grumpy and slunked off to find some other spot to nap. Voldemort sighed, a little sad at her going when they'd been having such a beautiful moment.

Harry rolled to face him, sticking his cold feet on Voldemort's lukewarm thighs and wiggling his toes. "I feel it my duty to tell you: your relationship with your pet probably crosses the line of what is considered socially and ethically acceptable."

Voldemort hissed, waved a hand to clean himself. Pondered. "I thought you didn't like to be called pet."

Harry scowled and attempted to smother him with a pillow which ended with a sort of violent wrestling that devolved into further frottage.

Voldemort was just sliding his tongue next to his fingers into the mess of Harry's arse, when in the distance, the sound of a buzzer going off alerted to them the passage of time.

"Curses," Harry moaned and covered his head with the very pillow he'd used to attack Voldemort.

Voldemort rose from Harry's arse and wiped his mouth.

"NO- don't stop, you bloody- aaaah..."

Voldemort resumed. He sealed his mouth over Harry's hole and pressed the flat of his tongue there, only to stop short when the clock above the fireplace buzzed again.

" _Ignore it_."

Voldemort was about to suggest they try the firecall set-up again, Harry face down in the hearth, arse up, taking care of Ministry business on one end and, well… business of an altogether sort on the other. It had worked perfectly well up until Harry came and embarrassed himself in front of an entire committee of Magical Mishaps liaison officers.

The clock buzzed in quick succession and with particular force, in time with Harry's secretary beating on his office door back at the Ministry.

"Fire and damnation!" Harry shouted, shoving off the bed and slipping his trousers back on, wet arse and all. He looked back at Voldemort, pointing. "We will continue this conversation later."

Harry went for the door, seemed to rethink it a few seconds, then backtracked so he could plant a sloppy kiss against Voldemort's mouth before storming out, yanking his bare arms into a discarded robe. Voldemort hoped it wasn't one of his or there would be streaks of dried come all over the inside front.

Voldemort lay in silence for a minute or two, before deciding he had work to finish as well. Harry didn't know the first thing about being a Dark Lord if he thought it counted as unemployment. Voldemort happened to be very stimulating for the economy, thank you very much. He _created_ jobs! What would Harry say to _that_?

He dressed, which consisted of slipping a single robe over his head and running a hand over his smooth scalp. He thought about spelling the bed clean of their copious fluids, but would rather annoy Harry, so he left everything as it was and turned on the spot.

Hermione Granger jumped as he appeared unannounced into her office, then looked annoyed at having been startled in the first place.

"Wasn't Harry supposed to tell you to stop tearing through the Ministry wards just to remind everyone you're keyed into them? It sets off alarms all over the place," she groused. As if Voldemort would do something simply because Harry asked! He was not so domesticated. "I thought we agreed on noon. It's past three o'clock."

"Something came up."

She looked as if she knew exactly what that something was, and glanced at Voldemort's hands as if to discern whether he had washed them or not. (He hadn't). Voldemort wiped his mouth on the back of his arm self-consciously, and Granger's face pinched like she had something sour in her mouth.

"Well, in any case, I have the results of our research here, and let me tell you," she said, leaning over and hefting a large stack of papers from a side table to her large desk, "it's complicated."

They leaned over the culmination of their results, that which they orchestrated together and compiled what they had gathered separately.

The Muggleborn Question. Rather, _questions_.

With a team of both Muggle and Wizard informed Unspeakables (and a private team constructed by Voldemort himself in secret), they had spent the last year looking into the cause of Muggleborns. Was it a recessive gene buried deeply within a string of non-magical generations triggered just-so into manifesting the ability to wield magic? Children conceived on solstices or born when the planets are aligned in a certain way, on eclipses or other particularly magical days? A mother's unknowing passing contact with magical energy that penetrates the womb and settles there? Was it a case of child trafficking, Wizard infants kidnapped and dropped into the wrong homes? Babies swapped at birth?!

"Yes," Granger said in despair. "To all of that."

She held up the graphs, the pages of calculations, the files on every British Muggleborn in the last three-hundred years, and threw them away in the air.

They slumped in unison in Ganger's office chairs, staring blankly at the reports as they fluttered to the ground. They would have to start over. Increase the sample size, the variables.

"The existence of Muggleborns, from case to case, is… purely circumstantial?" She asked no one in particular, voice weak. "No divine intervention or rhyme or reason. Just… magic."

She looked up at Voldemort, eyebrow raised. "Throws a kink in your plan to eradicate them, yes? How exactly is your regime going to prevent something that cannot be predicted, isolated, or manipulated?! These children… they simply _are_. This is not genetics, which can be fought with eugenics, or a question of Muggles having accidental contact with Wizards. You can't segregate the magic that flows in every facet of the earth from them!"

She pinched her brow.

"I imagine killing them isn't an answer."

Granger looked up, furious. "You came to me with this because you wanted a clever solution that would appease our coalition. Any time you feel like breaching our agreement, let me know, and we can resume the war."

Well, war was certainly more exciting than sitting all day crunching numbers and getting soft around the middle. Couldn't he have just one more raid? A little one? For old time's sake? What it would do for his nerves to just torture one little Muggle… Voldemort sighed. He had better save it for an anniversary if he was going to try to weasel out a little murder and keep with the agreement. If only so he could avoid listening to Harry make ridiculous ultimatums and declarations, threats of taking his own life and all that rot. (Not that Voldemort thought he'd be very successful anyhow. Voldemort hadn't yet broken to the boy his suspicions, but he was fairly certain that the reason the killing curse had rebounded that night in 1981, wasn't because of a love spell, but because he was a Horcrux, vessels which were known to be particularly difficult to destroy. It was short only by a miracle the boy hadn't died when he'd been stabbed by a Basilisk fang all those years ago, one of the only substances powerful enough to destroy Horcruxes. So long as Harry didn't go around getting stabbed by Gryffindor's sword, he'd be joining Voldemort on a walk through immortality. Voldemort wasn't sure when he'd share this tidbit. But he wasn't going to willingly bungle things up if he'd have to hear about it for the next millennia.)

"Then if this solution is not in prevention, we must revitalize efforts for assimilation. And since, for reasons I cannot comprehend, that cannot be done by total enslavement of the Muggle population," and at this Voldemort glared at Granger, because he still thought it was a perfectly viable strategy, "we must decide what to do with Mudbloods once they are discovered. Afterall, our coalition guarantees segregation from Muggles to the fullest extent. Unless, as you said earlier, you wish to resume the war?"

Granger scowled.

"Why does your ideology have to be based on hating large populations of the human species? Why couldn't your platform be 'down with working Saturdays' or something?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he scoffed. "Working Saturdays are supremely efficient."

They lobbied back and forth, but as usual, they made one another so furious, it was no longer conducive to be in the same room unless Voldemort really did want to use up all of his murder allowance for the next hundred years. They saved the argument for another day, Voldemort storming out of her office and leaving a hurricane behind.

Granger was a bitingly intelligent girl, with venomous barbs in her arsenal. It was useful when they had enemies in common, but less so when they had only each other for targets. Voldemort had peered into her mind before, in the early days of the consolidation of their new government, found her thoughts racing and churning, constantly evolving as she examined and compartmentalized information at a blinding rate. She was a genius, in a way that made him nostalgic, of himself in his youth. Tom Riddle would have enjoyed Granger's mind, when he was in a position to manipulate her into his fold. Voldemort mostly found her irritable, and "2000% off limits", in Harry's words.

He sometimes wondered what it would have been like if she, by fate or happenstance, had wound up as his Horcrux instead of Harry. While Harry was resourceful and intuitive, she was smarter, more dedicated to her work, had an insatiable hunger for knowledge. She was largely responsible for Harry's survival through the years. She had set an academic record, not breaking Voldemort's own overall scores, but coming very close. She had her own published book, on the history of House Elves and other such unpleasant creatures, and it was critically acclaimed. Would she not have been the better choice if he could have had one?

Why Harry, anyhow?

Voldemort looked down. Harry grinned up at him from where he was on his knees, Voldemort's cock resting against his cheek. The tip of a tongue peeked out, blush pink, brushing just close enough to gather the drop of moisture from the head of his arousal before disappearing again. Harry hummed appreciatively.

Ah. Yes, that.

His little whore, he thought affectionately.

Voldemort lifted his foot, pressed it into Harry's sternum and kicked until Harry landed on his back, his foot pressing down on the boy's throat. Harry didn't fight all that much, squirming and rutting into the air like the depraved boy he was. Voldemort rubbed himself furiously, thanking whatever deity deciding he deserved such a sexually compatible, hedonistic lover and showing his gratitude by stroking himself to completion and aiming so that he came on Harry's panting face and parted lips.

He supposed if he couldn't have his raid, then he could settle for this for now. It was awfully difficult to work up a murderous rage right after literally fucking Harry into the ground. It seemed Harry had unintentionally stumbled upon the drain to Voldemort's bloodlust when he had so boldly crawled in his lap at the beginning of all of this and had been abusing it since. In any case, he could put off his ultimate plan for world domination for a few decades while Harry got this whole _morals_ thing out of his system. Voldemort wasn't much of a long-term planner, but he could be patient if absolutely necessary. Besides, if he really, really wanted to, he could always double-cross the boy, annihilate the other half of the government, and lock him in a tower until he came around. They had the time, and Voldemort had it on good authority (that was, his own) that he was very persuasive.

But.

Voldemort mercifully lifted his food and leant down to grasp Harry's arms. He helped him up on wobbly legs and the boy teetered and nuzzled against him, rubbing his sticky face into his chest and sighing in relief as his heated forehead came into contact with Voldemort's cool skin.

They headed for the tub where, barring an actual apocalypse and only an immediately life-threatening one, they intended to take a long soak, Harry's responsibilities be damned.

Of all the terrible and painful things he could imagine doing to Harry, Voldemort had to confess to himself that he had come to rather like the after bit.

They sank into the simmering water and Harry moaned, long and obscene. Voldemort looked down at his own loins, alarmed that things were stirring so soon. Merlin, immortality wasn't going to be all that long if Harry kept sucking the lifeforce out of him at this rate, the incubus.

"Did you ever use the prefect bath at Hogwarts?" Harry sighed, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. "We need one of those here."

He looked at Harry across the steaming bath where he was leaning his head back against the rim beside Voldemort's crossed feet. He fished around in the water until he found Harry's ankle and began digging his nails into his sole. Harry moaned. Voldemort prodded him with a toe and Harry chased it with a playful snap of his teeth.

"Granger will have some news for you tomorrow."

He hummed.

"Not calling her my Mudblood any longer, I see. What character development."

Voldemort pinched his heel and Harry squalled.

"Ah, my apologies, child."

Harry rose his head enough to squint at him, just to make his displeasure known, before resting back again.

"And you've got to stop this whole," his pruned fingers made quotations in the air, " _childe_ business. It's really uncool. You don't want all our employees at work to laugh at me, do you? Besides..."

Harry seemed to forget what he was going to say, trailing off with a blissful sigh as Voldemort continued to rub at his foot.

"I can see you're in agony over it."

Harry's toes wiggled.

"Mmmm."

Voldemort rather forgot what he was saying as well. The miasma of the bath and the tender instep of Harry's foot was making him imagine kissing up his leg and migrating to warmer waters, as it were. You see? How could he possibly focus on spearheading a violent and glorious revolution in this state? The future was not looking bright.

In Granger's office again, they were attempting to break the stalemate.

"We must release our findings to the public."

"No. With the little peace we have now, you will disrupt the natural order-"

"If by natural order, you mean unscientific, nonsensical-"

"Hatred and bigotry are never scientific! And the world continues to spin."

They glared at one another until Granger's new secretary cleared his throat nervously. "Um, Miss Granger, ma'am. My Lord… Sir. Sorry to int-interrupt, but ah. The press is here for their segment for tomorrow's paper?"

They continued to bore into one another's eyes, unflinching, until even Voldemort could see it was becoming a bit ridiculous.

"Very well," Granger grit through her teeth. "Tell them I'll be out in ten while we wrap this up."

They decided to present only the most basic ideas of the study, enough to provide the theory needed for the upcoming reformations. The rest of the data would be handed over to the archives of the Unspeakables for later consideration when the advancement of magical theory and technology could once again review the question of how Muggleborns were made.

At the present, the Wizengamot would vote on the drafts for how to deal with Muggleborns in a more efficient manner that would help contain Muggle taint in Wizarding culture. The war, Voldemort was informed, had apparently left a lot of orphans, and they needed some place to go. His first suggestion was a settlement of sorts, where Muggleborns could live segregated from the rest of society, in their own housing and workforce controlled by the Ministry.

"A concentration camp," Granger said, deadpan. "You want a looming prison of thousands of Muggleborns draining the system and ruining our reputation with foreign affairs? I know you grew up in the age of Auschwitz and the Gulag, but does your selective memory not recall how it stains German and Soviet history forever?!"

As it turned out, the settlement would not be constructed.

Adult Muggleborns would continue their jobs undisturbed, with Granger's pesky ' _Nondiscrimination Clause_ '. It seemed, once humans enjoyed the garnishes of _rights_ and _freedom_ , they were keen to keep it. However, over a ten year separation process, Muggleborns were expected to have ceased all contact with Muggles. Marriage between Muggles and Wizarding folk would be prohibited or would have to be taken elsewhere, and only authorized Ministry personnel could retain possession of Muggle products for study and the possibility of repurposing.

"That is totally impractical. You're saying I'll go to prison for being found with a mechanical pencil?" Harry asked, slashing through a line in the declaration.

What the hell was a mechanical pencil?

"I refuse to forward it."

Well. It was a draft, anyway.

...And only authorized Ministry personnel could retain possession of Muggle products deemed as dangerous or damaging to Wizarding economy or environment.

"That is much better. Now take this down to Hermione's department so they can whip up a five page definition on 'dangerous' and 'damaging'."

Voldemort stared hard at Harry who was holding out the heavily edited paper and looking over a log of expenditures. Had he just ordered Lord Voldemort? _Dared_ to do it and not look him in the eye?

Harry looked up in confusion, seemed to review the previous fifteen seconds and grew visibly sheepish. Voldemort heard him gulp.

"I'll have Zabini send it?" he amended.

Voldemort towered over Harry, considered. "No, I'll take it."

"Why are you smiling like that?" Harry asked, words coming out fast. "Stop it, it's scary."

"It has been a while since I made an appearance within the Ministry itself. They probably need a reminder of _who sits as king_." Voldemort grabbed Harry's chin forcefully, nails scratching. "I think you could do for a reminder as well, child."

"No," Harry stuttered, jerking to his feet. "Not necessary. Either of those things."

"Then if you don't want the task of filling a sudden number of vacancies within this building, I suggest you reflect on your future conduct."

Harry glowered, probably already scheming on how to best suck up (most likely with literal sucking involved), but he sat back down and mumbled a quick, "Yes, My Lord."

There was a blush on the back of Harry's neck, and Voldemort felt warm stirrings as the sight. How pleasant it was to see Harry embarrassed and bruised about the pride. He was such a strong willed boy, especially when forcing himself through political and economic planes, but here with just the two of them, Voldemort could twist him and play him and—

Voldemort caught a glimpse of Wicked Mischief on Harry's face and felt his good mood sour.

Weeks later, the bill detailing the Muggleborn problem would finally circulate for signatures, passing resolutions for present and future Muggleborn citizens. The bill officially recognized and funded a Muggleborn department within the Ministry offices which would be responsible for ensuring all children were given proper processing and identification so that they could pursue all of the basics of living upon reaching adulthood (jobs, housing, application for financial aid should they need it, etcetera), for regulating the altered memories of Muggle parents for flaws, for ensuring all contact between Muggles and Wizards was pre-approved, and that present Muggleborns be given supplemental seminars for culture and additional education. There was much, much more, but Voldemort found the fine print cramped his eyes.

The end result was a children's home system, to be funded by half the government and by half private donation. Regular screenings for Muggleborn infants would take place in hospitals and Muggle homes in the United Kingdom territories, children discovered would be adopted—

" _Kidnapped!_ " Grander balked.

— _adopted_ from their Muggle families and either taken in by a Wizarding home or placed in the orphanage where each child would receive attention from a minimum of three adults full time. And while Voldemort insisted he believed they should have their own school, Granger reminded him that it would cost more and they'd have to expand the Muggleborn department for coordination and extra budgeting and… There was a reason Voldemort's expertise was in war strategy and not bureaucracy. So, the Muggleborns would go to Hogwarts with the rest of the children, though none would be allowed in Slytherin House.

The grand opening of the orphanage came and went, and the response seemed to have been miraculously positive.

At least that was the end of his having to "think of the children!"

"Don't you want to go with me for my visit to Dumbledore's Home for Gifted Children?" Harry asked not a second after that thought had formed. Voldemort sighed.

"Dumbledore was responsible for you suffering at the hands of Muggles. It seems like misplaced gratitude to name a refuge for him."

"History has a sense of irony. And it was for the Light's vote." Harry paused. "And really, I wouldn't have suffered at the hands of Muggles if you hadn't killed my parents, and yet."

He gestured to the general vicinity as though to say 'Here we are'.

"The greatest irony in history," Dumbledore said from his portrait.

"Shut up," they replied in unison.

Voldemort did end up going to the orphanage. It was… very different from his experience. Children cringed and cowered away from him as usual; that was the same at least. But the overall atmosphere… other than children getting over being ripped from their biological parents, it was surprisingly happy. Harry was predictably popular with them.

Harry spent the afternoon playing quidditch in the front yard of the home, and they all but wept when he told them he had to leave for 'boring Ministry nonsense'. Harry passed over the last child to one of the staff reluctantly and sighed.

"Don't you want one?" Harry asked wistfully as they hurried their way to the home's office to floo.

Harry had another meeting and Voldemort would be going to Siberia for... a personal research project that most definitely would not offend the few sensibilities Harry had left if he knew the details.

"I already have one headache of a child. Why would I be in want of another?"

"Rude!" Harry whined, then seemed to consider it with a grin. "You're right, though. I'd develop some sort of only-child syndrome and become wildly jealous if you had to split your attention from me… Daddy."

Sometimes, Harry was truly incomprehensible to Voldemort.


End file.
